The Beautiful People
by Thessaly
Summary: In London, far away from the crystal and velvet of the Old Families, exquisite Narcissa Black learns to see the world differently.  We go on pretending stories like ours have happy endings.
1. Allowances for Honeymooners

_**(A/N)** My wonderful SQ beta Wombat is doing magic betaing this for me, and I thought it would be fair to post the edited versions here as well. So if you've read this before, you may see a few changes but not too many. Things got tightened up, typos got fixed, and the first two chapters got condensed into one. I don't own Harry Potter, I just have a luxury tent staked here. _

_65, 66, 67, 68_. "Mum, I am NOT going on the bloody stupid retreat!"

Narcissa Black sat in her bedroom, running the brush through her white-blonde hair. It was better than being downstairs. Drama, never patient at the best of times, was having anotherfight with Mother. And if Narcissa wasn't mistaken, her elder sister was going to be chastised for her bad language. _73, 74, 75, 76, 77_. Narcissa had never understood her sister's volatility, especially on this subject.

"I don't like the Malfoys, and they don't like me. I'm not interested in spending time with them. Why can't you just understand that? The Austins are perfectly respectable people, you've admitted that yourself, so why can't I just go and spend the summer with Cassandra instead of going on some stupid retreat!"

Drama was trying to be logical now, which would probably be better than indiscriminate yelling. _98, 99, 100_. Narcissa laid down the hairbrush. Drama had never been very patient, and Narcissa wondered how long this streak of logic was going to last. She parted her smooth hair and pinned it back with a pair of jeweled hair-pins she had been given for her seventeenth birthday, now three weeks gone. "Mother, I'm nineteen years old, and I can do what I like!" The doorbell rang.

Someone tapped on Narcissa's door. "Come in," she called. Andromeda Black put her head around the doorframe. "Guests for tea. Mother wants you downstairs."

"Did you win?"

"Does anyone win arguments with Mother?"

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, she can go to hell! I'm going to Cassandra's house for the summer."

Andromeda dropped onto Narcissa's bed with explosive sigh. She was possessed of a mercurial temperament and a boundless reserve of emotion. She was Andromeda to governesses and older family members, but Drama on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Narcissa, used to her sister's pointless tantrums, thought that herQuidditch nickname was moreaccurate.

"Why don't you want to go on the retreat?"

"Bloody Malfoys," growled Drama, throwing one of the pillows across the room. Narcissa winced.

"Could you _please_ not do that? What's wrong with the Malfoys?"

" Oh, Julia's all right, I suppose. But she's only Marguerite's niece; she's not really a Malfoy." Drama paused. "_Will_ Julia be at the retreat?"

"I think so." Narcissa paused. "We'll have to see Bella and Rudolphus though." It was as close as Narcissa could get to criticizing her sister and brother-in-law. It would also be the first meeting since their marriage. It would be – interesting.

"That's it, I'm not going. At least we don't have to put up with Marguerite."

"Drama!" Narcissa's eyes widened, momentarily.

"Sorry," said Drama, flushing. "No Cis, I really am sorry. I just, well, I never liked her that much. She always made such a pet out of Bella."

Narcissa looked up, face immaculate. "It's fine."

Drama shook her head. "I don't get you, you know that? Most people would yell at me if I said something like that. But it doesn't seem to bother you."

Narcissa looked at herself in the mirror again. "That's why we're not each other. I don't always understand you, either." She paused. "Who's here?"

"Guess. I thought you know they were coming – you look so nice."

"No, I didn't know. Is Julia with them?" Narcissa adjusted the sweep of the liner under her eyes. She wondered if she should put on a bit more rouge. She would be the first to admit that she didn't need makeup, but she liked knowing that she had control of what other people saw when they looked at her. Faces were unreliable.

"No."

Narcissa examined her expression again, and was satisfied. She transferred her gaze to her elder sister. "Are you going?"

"Nope." Drama sat up on the bed and winked. "I got sent to my room for bad language."

At the door of Narcissa's bedroom Drama paused. "Didn't Lucius give you those hair clips?"

"Yes."

Drama shook her head. "How can you let him do that to you?'

"Do what?"

"Chase you. It's disgusting, and you know he only does it because he couldn't get Bella."

"He does not."

"Fine," Drama snapped, suddenly irritable again. "I didn't put you down as that blind, Cis. Can't you see the way he looks at her?" She tossed her head. "Have it your way. Be deluded."

As Narcissa entered the room, the two guests rose. The Malfoys aged well, Narcissa's mother always said, and certainly that was true for Abraxas Malfoy. He had to be at least fifty, and he looked it, but somehow it didn't _matter_. He still carried with him the power, grace and lethal charm that all the Malfoys possessed in abundance. Narcissa glided over to Abraxas with a polite smile on her face. "Mr. Malfoy." She held out a gloved hand and curtsied. "This is a surprise; you usually come on Thursdays"

"If I had my choice, we would call every day." As she straightened up, Mr. Malfoy looked her over appraisingly. "My goodness, Narcissa, you get prettier every time we visit."

Narcissa smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy." she said, lightly.

"The pleasure is all mine" he said, and she laughed, the exquisite, bell-like sounds ringing through the drawing room.

She then crossed to where Lucius Malfoy stood, one hand resting on the back of his chair. He was the image of his father, or what hisfather must have been when he was twenty-one; tMalfoy was more intense than his father, and gave the impression of being dangerous. "Mr. Malfoy." Narcissa said, extending a hand. "I am glad to see you."

Lucius Malfoy raised her hand, pulling the glove back so he could plant a kiss on the bare skin of her hand. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture. "As I am glad to see you, Miss Narcissa," he said. He relinquished her hand. "Tell me you'll go to all the London dances with me this winter. I haven't got a partner."

"Oh, no. I have one more year of school left, Mr. Malfoy. And surely you could get a better partner than a school-girl."

"I don't think I could get a betterpartner than you, Miss Narcissa." Lucius said, with a half smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Later, Narcissa wandered the gardens arm-in-arm with Lucius, leaving her mother to playhostess alone; she was expected to entertain Lucius, preferably in private.

"What is Julia up to?" Narcissa asked. "I see you all so little, but especially her."

Lucius smiled. "She has been in London a great deal, and her research seems to be better than our poor company."

"I don't think I've seen her all summer."

"We were both at your sister's wedding."

"Of course." There was a pause while they both remembered the spectacle that had been Bella's wedding. The presenceof Bellatrix the warrior hung like a thunderstorm over the conversation, ominous and unfulfilled. It would be another week before the pressurebroke. Narcissa searched for a subject more pleasant to her companion, and, if it must be owned, to herself. "I was just thinking of the summers we used to spend together, all of us. You know, Bella, Drama, Regulus, me, you and Julia. Quite an interesting combination."

"Yes. Never enough for a Quidditch team, though," Lucius said smiling. "I used to regret that so much. Fortunately, we always got to watchAnthony Wilkes and Drama throw Quaffles at each other." He paused.

"That is, when you hadn't enchanted the Quafflesto do strange things," said Narcissa with a twinkle of a smile. "I was quite fond of the ones that belched smoke. Highly creative."

"Oh, Merlin," said Lucius. "What about when you and Julia dressed the Nott boy and Regulus up as winners of the Witch Weekly fashion show?"

Narcissa laughed, and turned her face away, blushing. "Oh, you _would_ have to remember all the really embarrassing things I did when I was ten. You know me too well."

"On the contrary. I am very interested in knowing you better."

Several days later, as Narcissa was directing the loading of the coaches, Regulus and Aunt Ursula appeared on the doorstep. Fifteen year old was Sirius dawdling behind them, along with one of his school friends. Narcissa could just make out a faint "...really horrible" as she followed her mother and Drama outside to the waiting carriage.

"Narcissa, dear," her mother said, pulling her aside. "Would you mind riding with them?" she asked, nodding to Sirius and the friend (what was his name?).

As it happened, Narcissa minded very much. The last thing she wanted to do was spend three hours in a carriage with both Sirius _and_ his friend. It was a pity they couldn't Apparate. "What about Regulus?" she demurred.

"He'll come with me," said Aunt Ursula, smiling at her son. "Reggie missed Mummy when he was away at school this year." Narcissa smiled politely.

"Very much, ma'am," Regulus said, smiling. He was eleven years old, and pampered beyond belief. He leaned around his mother and pulled a face at his brother. "I'm getting a new broom for next year, did Mummy tell you that?"

Sirius, as anybody who spent enough time around him, would well know, desperately wanted a new broom. "Yeah, well you can shove it up your - !" he yelled, a spark of red exploding from his wand. Regulus bent over coughing, hit with some curse.

"Sirius Nigellus Black!" Aunt Ursula advanced, pulling out her wand. "_Silencio Tempus_! Six hours." Sirius, adept at evading everyonebut his mother, caught the charm full in the face. He opened his mouth and shut it again, face red with humiliation. "Narcissa, would you look after him, please?"

Narcissa sighed, inwardly condemning her aunt to a private netherworld. She didn't want to babysit. Not at all. She opened the door to the carriage. "Get in." she said to the friend.

"But, Miss...she...he..." the boy was almost in tears.

"Get in, please! You too, Sirius. Drama, which carriage are you going in?" Finally, Narcissa grabbed both boys by the wrists and pulled them into the carriage. "Drive on," she called.

"Please take it off," the friend implored. Sirius's face was still red, and his eyes swam with what looked like thinly disguised tears. He rubbed at them and looked resolutely out the window.

"I'm going to, oh, what's your name?"

"Peter, Miss. Peter Pettigrew." Oh, of course. His father was a minor Ministry official, and from what she'd been hearing, he was one of Sirius's most respectable friends. Narcissa wondered fleetingly how much Sirius had had to fight to get to be allowed to bring even this one with him.

"Sirius, how many times have I told you to be subtle?" Narcissa asked, searching for her wand. "_Finite incantatum._"

"Piss off," said Sirius tiredly.

"I'm trying to _help_ you Sirius," said Narcissa. "You're certainly old enough to look after yourself – why don't you just do as you're told? Even Drama doesn't court danger this badly."

"Don't tickle sleeping dragons," said Drama, winking at Sirius. "Cheer up. She doesn't mean it."

"I do mean it," said Narcissa with a warning look at her sister. "If he would just pay attention, it would be a whole lot easier. Subtlety isn't a bad thing."

"Why should I trust you?" Sirius muttered mutinously. "You're one of _them_."

"Them?"

"You know, the beautiful people."

"Who?" Drama looked intrigued.

"Bella. That sort." Sirius flushed. "That's what we call them in Gryffindor, anyway."

"The old families," said Peter.

Narcissa turned to look out of the window. Drama was asking for a better description of these "beautiful people." But Narcissa understood what Sirius meant. She supposed she was one of them. It was her circle and her people: the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Wilkes, the Rosiers, the Notts, the Lestranges. _That_ sort. The Old Families. The Dark Families. Society. Respectable People. There were a lot of names for them. Narcissa wished Sirius hadn't brought this topic up just now. She twisted her fingers – fine, pale, French-manicured fingers, in the fabric of her dress. The Beautiful People. She looked and acted like one; she knew that, but that was because she knew, deep down, that the best way to follow your own agenda was to do what other people wanted. She thought of Lucius Malfoy leaning over his chess board, fingers tapping the fine gilt edge. He saw life as a game to be played and to be one by certain rules. As it happened, so did Narcissa. The rules…she gazed at the summer trees. That was Drama's problem, the reasonshe kept flinging herself up against the parental decrees. That was Sirius's problem too; the lesson he hadn't learned. That was why her clever young cousin acted like a child of thirteen at home. He didn't understand those rules; neither of them did. There was a reality that shaped the lives of the Old Families, a reality which must be accepted for survival on any level in their world. Oh, Sirius. That was why he was so desperately unhappy. He was going to be trouble, Narcissa could feel it.

"Hey, Cis," Speak of the devil, Narcissathought. "You have your tarot cards?'

"Oh, are you doing tricks?" Drama asked with a smile. "Do me too, would you?"

"Sirius, I have asked you repeatedly to call me by my full name." Narcissa rummaged in the baggage on the seat next to her. "Why me anyway? You all take divination – you can do your own readings."

"Drama's rubbish at divination," said Sirius. Drama pushed him.

"Doesn't matter. I've graduated, AND I'm gainfully employed, all without need of divination."

"Besides, its harder to read accurately for yourself, that's what Applebaum says," added Sirius.

"Rem- one of our friends tried it and found out he was going to fall through a hole to China," Peter volunteered. He giggled.

"Sounds more like an interpretation problem than anything else," said Narcissa.

"And you're way better than anyone else," Drama said, watching the cards sift through Narcissa's fingers. "Everyone knows you're brill at divination."

"Hmm." said Narcissa, noncommittally. She _was_ good. It worried her sometimes. A sweet, pampered daughter should not have talents as, well, unpredictable as divination. Mr. Malfoy – or anybody else for that matter – would not want to marry a diviner. They would want to marry an accomplished woman. She could feel the familiar slick of the cards, and liked it. It felt right; the tiny part of her that sometimes questioned the rituals and rigidity of life among the beautiful people was proud of an honest talent.

The Malfoy's summer retreats were legendary. It was the ambition of many a petty minister to get onto the august guest list, but few ever did. The Old Families, however, had been a part of the retreats since the conquest, and they figured in most of Narcissa's memories. It felt good to be pulling up to the old familiar house again. She looked, automatically, for the figure of Marguerite Malfoy on the steps to welcome the visitors, and realized with a pang that the delicate, clever Mrs. Malfoy was really, truly gone. She stepped out of the carriage, leaving the two boys to Drama, and smelled the light, pine-scented breeze. Poor Marguerite...death left a gaping hole somewhere around your heart, and every time you noticed the absence, it hurt a little more. What really hurt, Narcissa reflected, was that she might have prevented it. Told Marguerite not to go out in the cold in such a thin robe – more suited to high summer than late, wet September. And then, perhaps told Lucius or Abraxas how serious the illness was. But she hadn't, no matter how many times she saw a funeral procession or a grieving Abraxas in her crystal. I'm not going to think about that, Narcissa thought, shading her eyes with one immaculately white gloved hand.

She walked over to the steps to greet the hosts. Aunt Ursula and Mother were talking to the second figure on the steps. There was a nod, a few laughs, then the figure turned. "Julia!" said Narcissa in surprise. "Your cousin led me to think you had become a hermit!"

"No, not quite. And certainly not for you." Lucius Malfoy's adopted sister held out both hands, which Narcissa took gracefully, kissing her friend on the cheek as she did.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy," said Narcissa, nodding to father and son as she passed. Julia took her arm and ledher into the house.

"Come and help me find some lemonade, dear."

As theyentered, Narcissa thought she heard her mother saying, "...and do you know when my other daughter plans to arrive?"

And from Sirius, who, with Peter, was halfway up the stairs to the second floor and the rooms he usually occupied, "Bella's coming? Oh, bloody hell." Her cousin, supremely oblivious at fifteen, was probably the only member of the family who wasn't aware of Bella's return, or of the undercurrent of tension she caused, whether present or absent.

Bella arrived with the evening, in an elegant tawny brown coach. She was wearing new robes of a particularly fine cut, bought in Paris on her honeymoon. She was sleek as a cat, her particular and disturbing beauty at its fullest. She always looked like that just as she was about to enter a room full of people she could manipulate, Narcissa thought. It was so simple: Bella enjoyed causing trouble. Narcissa both hated and admired her oldest sister, who was dark and sensual to Narcissa's own refined fairness. Bella had taught her, largely through example, about control and subtlety, and about getting what you wanted. You did not trust Bella. You avoided her. Her marriage had been, in fact, quite fortunate. Having something as _de riguer_ as a husband did her good, especially when he was as presentable as Rudolphus Lestrange. Narcissa heard the front door open, heard the voices in the hall. She, Julia, Drama, Sirius, and Peter were clustered around Narcissa's crystal, which she was reading as a parlor trick. Lucius was watching and pretending he wasn't. His head snapped up when they heard Bella in the hall.

Narcissa remembered Drama's earlier warning about Lucius and Bella. She was well aware that Bella had been pulling Lucius by a string since he was twelve, but with her marriage to someone in almost every way his, Bellahad most likely lost Lucius. Ever since Bella announced her engagement, Lucius had begun to attack her as politely as one possibly could. In the process, he had found it expedient to favor Narcissa, who, at sixteen and a half, enjoyed it a great deal. He was clever, charming, rich, and very well connected. That he was using her to get back at Bella, she was well aware, but she was trained to use any situation to her advantage. Her family expected her to marry, and she couldn't do better. Narcissa smiled, discreetly, at the prospect of the coming contest. She decided to ignore Bella for the moment.

"What do you see?" Peter asked, craning over the crystal ball.

"I think it's a white hawthorn," she said.

"Don't those usually mean unrequited love?" Julia asked. She smiled archly at Lucius, teasing him a little as only a sister could do.

"May I look?" Drama asked. She seemed amused too – it was no doubt the possibility of baiting Bella, who disliked Drama even more than Narcissa.

"Certainly, but do be careful. You know how determined Narcissa is to keep the things that are hers. Especially if they were freely given." Julia was a cousin, properly a Desmoulins, but she played the old family games to perfection. Drama leaned over the crystal, smiling at Julia as she did.

"You know, I think you're right." Peter's head was going back and forth as if he were watching a Quidditch game, first looking at one sister, then at the other. Julia had effectively ruined Bella's entrance, and obviously reveled inthe fact. Narcissa wondered briefly what exactly the relationship was between Julia and Bella; she had never found out.

"Oh, is Narcissa still playing with that thing?" Bella asked scathingly. "Honestly, Lucius," she added, drawing his attention back to her. "You'd never believe how _young_ my sisters can be. Would you mind?" She said, turning her back to him to he could take her evening wrap.

Lucius remained seated. "On the contrary, I find Miss Narcissa very mature." He paused. "You seem in need of assistance." Bella was still waiting. "Perhaps you'd better ask Lestrange, he seems to be standing around panting for something to do. Some sherry, Lestrange?" The man shook his head, but took Bella's wrap without speaking. "And, to be honest my dear," Lucius said, nodding to Bella, "I think the only reason you married him was to have someone to take your wrap."

"You know me too well," Bella said coyly. "But I think an _intellectual_ match is just as important for a woman with ... needs. I find that I need a clever man to bring a _tête-a-tête_ to a ... climax."

"I didn't know married women could make innuendos like that," said Drama, just loud enough to be heard.

Bella's head snapped around. "I beg your pardon, Andromeda?"

"What? I didn't mean anything," said Drama sweetly. "It was a joke, Bella." It was times like these, Narcissa thought, that she remembered that Drama was a Black too, no matter how she liked to ignore it.

"I didn't know any woman could make innuendos like that," said Lestrange, who was standing in the doorway, showing off his tousled dark hair and broad shoulders to full advantage.

"Except maybe to her husband," said Bella. She went over to her ruffled spouse and kissed him. "Everyone makes allowances for honeymooners."

"Lucius, are you going to offer us any sherry?" asked Julia. Lucius looked away from the couple in the doorway with a distinctly sour look on his face.

"Of course, if you will ask me."

"Mr. Malfoy, I've been working hard," said Narcissa, smiling through her eyelashes, and hoping he found them as pleasing a shade of gold as she did, "and if you could get me a sherry, I would be much obliged."

"I would get you anything, Miss Narcissa," said Lucius. "Certainly such a small thing as a glass of sherry."

"I am exceedingly grateful, Mr. Malfoy," said Narcissa, brushing his hand as she took the glass and leaning back in her chair. "Consider me in your debt." Lucius's fingers twined in hers for a moment and he leaned forward as she leaned back.

"Narcissa, may I look at your crystal?" Bella asked. She had apparently recovered and renewed the attack.

"Certainly," said Narcissa vaguely, far more interested Lucius's warm fingers, brushing the back of her hands. I'll have to leave my gloves off more often, she thought hazily.

Julia stood up, smiling. "While Bella spies on people, perhaps, Narcissa, you would play for us?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't. It's your house – you had better do the honors!"

"Miss Narcissa," said Lucius, suddenly, "I would love to hear you play. I think harps are by far the most beautiful instrument. Not to speak badly of your piano, Julia."

"What a wonderful idea, Lucius. Narcissa can play while I sing," said Bella. She was sitting at the little table with the crystal, but had looked up, the firelight skidding along the sharp lines of her face. "Or," she added, coming up with a better idea, "Julia can accompany me."

"I would rather hear Miss Narcissa alone," said Lucius coolly. Lestrange appeared to agree.

"Well, if that's the case, I think its time I paid my respects to your parents, Lucius."

"Probably," he answered, obviously far more interested in the sight of Narcissa walking over the music cupboard.

"OH!" cried Bella. "I'm so sorry." Narcissa's crystal fell to the floor as Bella stood, shattering on the smooth wood parquet with a smash. Narcissa spun around in time to see the look of pure malice on Bella's face.

Lucius saw it too. "Don't worry, Miss Narcissa," he said, coming over to where she stood by the music cabinet. He put a finger under her chin and tipped it up until she looked directly at him. "It's provident, really. I had been wanting to buy you something to prove my ... regard for you. I hope you'll allow me to replace the crystal your sister so carelessly broke."

Narcissa was surprised. Even the charming Lucius Malfoy was not usually this demonstrative, or, for that matter, obvious. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I would like that above all things."

The Lestranges exited the room, Bella pulling Rudophus behind her and fuming. Sirius and Drama, who appeared to have been holding their breaths since Bella approached the table, let them out again.

"Uh, do you want to ...?" Sirius muttered to Peter, gesturing towards the french doors and escape.

"OK."

Drama shook her head at Sirius. "Why don't I show we show Peter the woods?" No one paid them any attention, but Narcissa heard Drama saying as she ushered the two into the hall, "Now that, gentlemen, is subtlety."

Narcissa, alone in the room, took a deep breath and knelt to gather the pieces of her crystal. She noticed her hands were shaking, and willed them to stop. It was the first, perhaps second, time in her life that she had won a skirmish with Bella. That was me. I did that. She swallowed, and the sense of empowerment vanished. She was ten again, and afraid of what her glamorous sister would do next. Bella took to revenge naturally. Narcissa took a deep breath and stood up. She examined herself in the wall mirror, reordering her hair and calming herself, preparing for the conflict that would begin the minute she walked into the dining room. It was going to be a very interesting week, now that Bella was back.


	2. Diagon Alley in the Summer

"So this is your secret hideaway." Narcissa said, looking around the small room. Alembics, glassware and potions materials were ranged along the walls of the ruthlessly tidy lab, everything clear and surgically ordered.

Julia picked up a bit of glass tubing, absently working as she spoke. "Yes, it must look rather impressive. I keep all my long term projects running in here." Her hands caressed the glassware and jars and Narcissa realized just how much her friend belonged here. Julia was always poised, smiling, andelegant, but in the lab her manners took on a sense of ownership. Visible through the other girl's habitual poise, Narcissa could see a deep, possessive love. Julia was invested in this lab and in her work with a fanaticism that reminded Narcissa of BellaNarcissa looked at a sheaf of notes by one of the vials. It was labeled _Veritaserum 129_ in Julia's elegant backhand, and beneath it, Narcissa could see an old manuscript, the blurred writing apparently on the same subject. "What are you doing?" she asked.

Julia coloured. "I'm sorry - I can't tell you. _He_ said it was to be a secret."

One of the things the old families had in common was an ability to recognize italicized pronouns. Narcissa was amazed. She had known her friend was talented, but she hadn't known that she was talented enough to come to the attention of the Dark Lord. "You work for Him? Is it dangerous?" Narcissa asked.

"I am in his employ," said Julia, her voice taking on formal cadence. "Is it dangerous? Perhaps. Anything is dangerous, especially for Him. But it will be worth it."

Narcissa was reminded again, unnervingly, of Bella and her child's curiosity,followedby her teenage crush and then by her woman's obsession, with the Dark Lord. "I'm...amazed. I didn't know you were that good."

Julia shrugged. "We haven't talked that much in the last few years." She took a quick look at one of her bubbling cauldrons, stirred it and added something, then turned to Narcissa. "It's a bit close in here, and the fumes can be quite oppressive. Why don't we go out on the terrace, and have a nice long chat?"

---

Lucius had been right: they didn't see much of Julia. Whatever she was doing took up a lot of her time, but she would emerge in the cool evenings to join them on the porch, or to play a little music; sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning. Narcissa, for her part, carried the avoidance of Bella to a fine art. The week that Drama got the owl, Julia's frowns were noticeably more common than her smiles, and Narcissa was feeling on edge from one too many evenings with the Lestranges. It was atbreakfast, held every day in the wood-paneled dining room with the immaculate white sideboard and the shining silver trays, that the owl arrived. Narcissa sipped black coffee delicately and wondered if Bella was planning to join the walk out to the lake and the _al fresco_ lunch planned for that afternoon. Peter and Sirius were the only other two in the room,and they were busytrying to make the strangest combination of breakfasts they could. "What about eggs and ham and treacle and oatmeal?" asked Peter. Narcissa wondered where the treacle had come from. It stuck her as somewhat inelegant for the Malfoy sideboard.

"Sounds vile," said Drama, coming in. Her purple robes were surprisingly tidy this morning, but she looked as if she hadn't slept all night. She registered the subject. "Why do the Malfoys serve treacle at breakfast?"

"That's boring," Sirius declared. "That's like Scottish breakfast or something. Try this: yogurt, treacle, and kippers."

"Ugh! You win." For once, Narcissa had to agree with Peter, tiresome child though he was.

The owl soared through the open window and landed in front of Narcissa, who divested it of its letter.

"Is it for me?" Sirius asked, abruptly losing interest in the game. He was corresponding with his school friends semi-covertly, mostly because he didn't know how his mother would take it, and kept a watch on all owls entering the property. Narcissa looked at the letter.

"No. Drama, it's for you."

"Is it? Yes!" Drama grabbed her letter and read it over quickly once, then again. The hand looked like Cassandra Austin's. There was a familiar look on Drama's face as she finished reading it for the fourth time. It was a cunning look: the look she had when she was going to give someone a particularly nasty case of boils, or when she was going to bowl the Slytherin keeper over backwards with an overly forceful goal. The boys left the room, heading for the woods. Narcissa took another sip of her coffee, wondering about the letter, and where a distraction was when you needed something. She would have liked to know just _what_ Drama was up to. The distraction came in the form of a house-elf, who edged into the room and said, "Miss Andromeda, Mistress Ursula is wanting to see you as soon as possible, please."

"I'm coming," said Drama vaguely. A summons from Aunt Ursula was always thing to be dreaded and, if possible, avoided.

"Andromeda!" Aunt Ursula's voice echoed through the four rooms leading into the dining room from the front stairwell. Drama panicked visibly and slid out the side door, giving Narcissa an eloquent eye message of _cover for me, please?_

Narcissa turned a quelling look on the house-elf. "You may go," she told it, and it went."Where _is_ that girl?" Aunt Ursula asked, striding into the room.

"I don't know, Aunt," said Narcissa politely.

"What's that?" Aunt Ursula asked, distracted by Drama's letter.

"Mine," said Narcissa coolly, picking it up as her aunt reached for it. "Just a note from a school friend. She's..." Narcissa opened the letter, "gone to Italy on holiday."

"Oh," answered Aunt Ursula, somewhat thwarted, "Well, if you see Andromeda, tell her I want a word with her. Irresponsible child! I don't know why the Ministry tolerates her. If I had my way with that girl..."

Narcissa continued to peruse the letter so that she might not have to listen to Aunt Ursula's tirade about Drama's bad behavior. The woman finally left, and Narcissa was alone at last.

_Hoy, Drama!_ read the note, in Cassandra Austin's large, curvy writing. _Have you figured out how to escape the wax-works yet? Ted and I had a long discussion on this subject last night, but we didn't generate anything useful. The ideas got stranger and stranger the more drinks we had, but somehow I don't think you can transfigure yourself wings and fly out of the Labyrinth of Castle Perilous (Ted's idea, not mine. He gets very classical and very romantic when he gets drunk, but bet you knew that already. He wouldn't even listen when I told him Icarus ended badly). So, we don't know how to get you out, but if you can get to London, we'll take care of you. I've a spare bed of sorts, and Ted says his floor is _v_er_y_ comfortable. Let us know when your coming and we'll be around to kidnap you in the middle of Diagon Alley. _

_Keep in touch!_

_Cass _

On the bottom of this note was scrawled a short message in an untidy hand. _Sweet Lady of my soul, come to London! Cass and I are lonely, and spend the evenings hitting Galahad (that's the new club – it just opened and its _(it's) _ one of the reasons why you have to come back to London) without you. It's a sad, sad thing, and we miss you most horribly._

_Your Teddy-Bear_

What's a Teddy-Bear? Narcissa thought, putting down the letter. So Drama's boyfriend missed her. How adorable. She had no doubt the romantic Ted and Teddy-Bear were the same boy. Narcissa tapped her nails on the table top. Drama was inarguably up to something. The question was, how was she going to do it, and how much was it going to annoy the family?

---

Diagon Alley in the summer was rather horrible. The constant stream of out-of-school children and tourists added to the usual bustle and made the streets seem even fuller. They picked up dust and other unspeakable street litter that accumulated in corners and, while it didn't actually do anything, looked liable to grab your ankle as you walked by. Narcissa still didn't quite follow how she'd been talked into coming to London with Drama – something about camouflage, which was probably unnecessary, but, well, this was Drama after all – but there she was, standing in the bookstore with Cassandra Austin and a boy with floppy brown hair who'd been introduced as Edward Tonks. Narcissa didn't recognize the name, and assumed, for Drama's sake, that he was obscure wizard blood. She hated to think of Drama consorting with a - _Muggle_. The little group finished their conversation, and Drama looked over at her sister. "Narcissa, we're off."

"Goodbye, then." Narcissa nodded at Drama's friends, but mostly at Cassandra. Narcissa's horrible feeling that the Tonks boy was Muggle-born was growing. Drama looked somewhat flustered. "You should probably be back early tonight, in time for the music. Just tell them I dumped you somewhere and ran off, right?"

"Of course."

Drama sighed, and hugged Narcissa quickly. "I'll see you sometime this fall, maybe."

"You're not coming back this summer?" Narcissa was surprised.

"Cis, are you having a laugh? No, but seriously, I'm going to owl mother tonight and tell her. They actually do want me back at the Ministry early, so I'll stay here."

Narcissa hugged Drama back. "Goodbye then," she said again. "I'll...miss you, Drama."

Drama squeezed her shoulders, waved, and walked through the door with her friends. She looked alive for the first time this summer. The Tonks boy was flirting with her rather gauchely, but it seemed to bring something out of Drama that Narcissa had never seen before. Narcissa felt, for a moment, a sting of loneliness, or discomfort: she wasn't sure which. Jealousy, perhaps. She shook her head, feeling foolish. She was a Black, born and, more importantly, bred. If Drama wanted to betray her family and run around with a Muggle boy, that was her business; Narcissa knew what was expected of her. She was in London to do some shopping, so she had better do it. But she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to walk into theseething mass of humanity that was Diagon Alley in July.

In the end, she went, a slim, elegant figure in green robes, white gloves and a large white hat. She threaded her way through the street with the expected difficulty, but the crowd outside Quality Quidditch Supplies was too much and she had to actively push her way through. Someone shoved her, and she tripped sideways into a smaller, and shadier, alley. Glaring at the crowd, she leaned against the wall, fanning herself with a hand. It was too hot. There was a store opposite her, the flaking hand-painted sign at a slightly drunken angle announcing that this was **Jasper Jumbley's Junk**. The store looked cooler than forcing her way through the main Alley, and Narcissa had a weakness for Diagon Alley junk stores. Despite her tidy habits, she rather liked the little stores with their eclectic merchandise and eccentric owners. The merchandise, old, dirty, and usually broken, had the thrill of novelty. She pushed the door, and somewhere in the dusk, a bell rang.

"Need any help, Miss?" Said a pimply youth who was sitting in a tall chair behind the side counter, reading what looked like _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four_.

"No, thank you. I'm just looking."

"Good," said the youth, and went back to his book. Narcissa threaded her way through the junk. The store was full of wonky brass scales, potion kits missing half their ingredients, and a shelf full of tired, very boring books. After some hunting, she found one gold earring with a pretty filigree pattern. Perhaps it could be turned into a pendant? Drama would like it, Narcissa thought. It wouldn't do for Julia, who liked her jewels colored, cut and new. There was a box of old gloves, and Narcissa was digging in it, wondering if she could find a pair in aubergine to go with the robes she was having made for the winter, when she realized she was not alone. The other customer was standing, back to her, reading one of the little books. Narcissa looked back to her gloves again, and something caught her eye. It was a table of divination supplies: a pack of tarot cards missing the entire suit of wands and with mustaches drawn on all the major arcana. A dowsing rod that looked as though it might have been doubling as a slinky. A wooden box of I Ching casting tablets, intricately and beautifully carved, which Narcissa distrusted because they were in such good condition. It was not nearly as good material as you'd get in Knockturn Alley, but cheap and surprisingly diverse. There were some other loose I Ching paraphenalia, several chipped rune stones, two broken oracle bones, and a crystal ball.

Narcissa picked it up. Lucius Malfoy had offered to replace hers, but she was a little unsure of the propriety of accepting. Were crystal balls in the same league as flowers or candy? This one was in good condition, considering its compatriots, but not as well cared-for as the I Ching set. There were a few chips on the outside and a curious, smoky flaw in the center of the ball, but nothing too out of the ordinary. On a whim, she whispered the incantation to start up the dormant crystal. She might as well see if it worked. To her surprise, the ball filled with the pale bluish smoke she expected from good crystals. It roiled for a moment, then twisted in on itself, giving her a brief glimpse of a woman in black and pink and gold, her hands in the air and dancing. She was smiling. Narcissa gave the ball a closer inspection, but there was still nothing outwardly wrong with it. It was good, there was no doubt about that. Very good. There was no reason _not_ to buy it. She would need one for her NEWTs this year. She also picked up the pair of gloves and earring, and headed to the till, still looking at the crystal. Of course, since that sort of thing always happened, she walked into the other boy in the shop. She hoped she handled it well, although it was equally both of their faults. He was reading as he walked and she was still looking at her crystal. Both the objects of their attention fell to the floor, the crystal rolling towards a table. His elderly glass ink jar fell as well, and splattered explosively, sending gold ink across the bottom five inches of Narcissa's robes, and probably her shoes as well. She just managed to hold onto her gloves.

The robe was ruined, of course. The boy looked up at her properly, and flushed bright crimson. "I'm so sorry. I – Well, I obviously wasn't looking where I was going, now was I?" He rubbed his forehead. "Umm. Merlin, I feel like such an idiot." They arrived gathered their things and paid for them at the till. He held the door open, saying "That was just horrible...a really great way to start my life as a responsible adult. I, umm," he saw her properly in the sun and looked, if possible, even more embarrassed. "Oh, sweet Circe, it's Narcissa Black, isn't it? The one who wins the Divination prizes every year and always looks immaculate, even at the Quidditch matches when the rest of us are a holy mess. Oh, Merlin, I just dumped gold ink on Narcissa Black."

Narcissa smiled in spite of herself. "I am here, if that makes any difference in what you're saying. It's – Longbottom? Head Boy Longbottom?"

"Yes. Well, former Head Boy, I'm done now. How I got to be Head Boy, I'll never know. You must think I'm completely dappy." He sighed. "Look, shall I buy you an ice cream?" He shook his head and grimaced for a moment. "There I go again. I've ruined your dress and your shoes and probably your afternoon, and then I go and offer you ice cream, and girls _never_ eat ice cream. Let me try that again. Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee? Or shall I just go away and let you deal with your wardrobe difficulties away from my appalling clumsiness?"

Narcissa giggled. Longbottom had been Head Boy last year, and had indeed had a reputation for gaucherie. He was a year ahead of her, so she'd never had classes with him, but she'd heard he was brilliant at some things and very clever at everything else. As a Slytherin, she had never really talked to him. Now, though, she felt intoxicated by the first real freedom she'd ever experienced. Even at Hogwarts where some, like Sirius, found liberty (although in the case of her cousin, it was probably a little too _much_ liberty), Narcissa was surrounded by people who watched what she did and said. It was like an extension of home, really. But now, here, she was completely alone. There was little chance she would see anybody connected with her life and her world. And she remembered the look in Drama's eyes as she was leaving, and the way that her walk eased into a fluid skimming motion, and the unfamiliar mellow note in her voice. And of course, Longbottom was from a very old, well-established family. So, with a feeling of doing something deeply wicked, Narcissa accepted his invitation to have ice cream and coffee.

**(A/N)** The title of the story is taken from the (obscure) Ulvaeus/Anderssen musical "Chess." Oh, and thank you to the reviewers; criticism means a lot to me, and we all need to know we have an audience. Come on, admit it.


	3. Tell Me, Where is Fancy Bred?

Longbottom talked a lot, Narcissa very little, but the running commentary, fresh with a wry, amused self-depreciation, soon brought her out to chatting as well. They spoke first about simple things they both knew, like Hogwarts and the teachers, but then wandered into other topics: the Ministry, Diagon Alley, Quidditch. It was a far different feeling from talking to Lucius or Evan Rosier or any of the other Slytherin boys her parents brought over; conversations with them were always delicately edged. There was a purpose buried under the chat, usually to request and convey information which was not for all ears. Hers was a world where the tilt of a teacup had special significance, and where the act of nodding to someone entering the room meant disgrace. Talking to Longbottom, Narcissa found herself surprised into laughter in a conversation which meandered with no particular point and no particular undercurrent. For the first time in her life, she could see down tothe bottom, and nothing unpleasant looked back at her. She was surprised when Longbottom looked at his watch and said, with a laugh, "It's nearly five. Shall I order some dinner and we just stay here? Or, oh my goodness, I never asked her if she had plans. Please don't tell me you've been listening to me jabber out of politeness all afternoon and really been panting to go elsewhere. Well, no, that's not right either – I bet you've never panted in your life."

"Well, I suppose I really had better be going," Narcissa said. What was this feeling creeping into her mind? Disappointment? Surely not… She made her farewells, and was halfway to the Leaky Cauldron when the owl caught up with her. It was one of the grey ones raised on the manor for the specific use of the Malfoy family; Merlin knew she'd received enough of them in the past. She paused in the purple twilight and took the proferred letter.

_Dear Narcissa and Andromeda: Something of a most unexpected nature has occurred here, the repercussions of which may particularly affect Narcissa. Do be aware that the issue is being handled expeditiously. Your mother, however, feels it best that you remain in London for the time being. We will arrange for your return at the earliest possible moment._

Narcissa stopped reading. She felt ill. There was more about where they should stay and how they should comport themselves. At the bottom it was signed, _Abraxas Malfoy_. No doubt written at her mother's command. But what could have gone wrong at Malfoy manner? Throughout her childhood it had always been untouchable. But this was an incident dangerous to such an extent that she, Narcissa, might be injured by rumors. Usually the Malfoys considered themselves above such things as rumors. The thought shocked her. _I can't go home_.

Without being precisely aware that she had made a choice, she folded the letter and tossed the owl back to the skies, then turned and hurried back to the small restaurant. Yes, Longbottom was still there. She let out her breath again.

He looked up from his book as she approached the table. "Goodness me. Now, what has happened to her?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Longbottom, but it seems that I won't - " she paused and got control of herself. "I won't be leaving just yet. Are you still willing to offer me dinner?"

"Of course," he said, all good humour. "It's not bad news, I hope? On the other hand, it'snot like you'll say that it is, even if your best friend has died a horrible and painful death."

She sat down, folding her hands neatly. "No, nothing of that sort has happened, I trust. Unless your coffee cup suggests misfortune? I've been granted a few more days here, that's all." She smiled.

"She wants to have dinner with me," Longbottom commented to the invisible third party. "Excellent. I'm liking this more and more. Conversation and dinner with a pretty girl. Makes you glad to be a grown-up." He smiled back. "What would you like? Stew? Salad? Sardine side-dish?"

"Have you got anything that doesn't begin with 's'?" Narcissa asked. Longbottom laughed and ordered all three, out of, as he emphasized, spite.As they were waiting to be served, a voice, mirthful and perhaps a little drunk, hailed them from the door.

"Oi, is that Longbottom?"

"Yes it is, you twit," someone else said.

"Well I can't tell – too much smoke. Heya, Longbottom." A tall boy with brownish-yellow hair pushed his way through the crowd to join the table. He had grey eyes and, at the moment, very pink cheeks. He was laughing. There was a girl with him as well, a cheerful brunette with a sharp nose and a ready smile.

"Costos, stop being stupid," she said merrily. "How _are_ you, Francis?"

"Well enough. Don't call me that," said Longbottom without rancour. "I'm not as happy as Costos, though. What _have_ you been giving him to drink?" He indicated Narcissa. "Remember Narcissa Black? She's staying in London for a few days. Miss Black, that unfortunate specimen is my friend, Constantine Fitzgerald, and the lady is his cousin Helen." He made a face. "She always calls my by my full name. She is also my colleague and, Merlin help me, my new boss. Say hello, children."

Narcissa nodded to Helen, and then to Fitzgerald, whom she had met before. Since the meeting had involved a few stray curses, she couldn't resist a delicate prod of sarcasm. "Fitzgerald, I think I remember last seeing you after the Quidditch match last June. You looked very much the same."

Costos Fitzgerald, drunk enough to be vivacious, but still in perfect command of his faculties, fixed Narcissa with a long, bright-eyed stare. "Francis Alexander Neville Longbottom, what the _hell_ are you doing with Miss bloody Slytherin Black?"

Narcissa's eyes flicked to Longbottom to see how he would deal with this, then moved back to Fitzgerald, and rested, coolly, on his face. She was not particularly worried; being in Slytherin for six years taught you how to deal with the aggressive Fitzgeralds of the world. Longbottom rolled his eyes. "Costos, you prat, don't be rude. Miss Black is not a Slytherin, she is my guest. And besides, you've graduated; you shouldn't be paying attention to house identities any more anyway. Hasn't anyone ever told him that it's rude to be inebriated in the presence of a lady?" He gave Narcissa an appealing look. "She's probably going to run off because my friends are so stupid. Excuse me a moment?" Longbottom stood and, catching Fitzgerald by the arm, pulled him sideways into the shadows, where the two young men had a short, hushed conversation.

Helen looked at them, slightly worried, then turned resolutely back to Narcissa. "So, why are you in London, again?" she asked, fidgeting with Longbottom's napkin. She sounded more uncomfortable than rude. Narcissa, who had been brought up to preserve and manipulate socially awkward situations, answered, "Just this afternoon. I have some shopping to be done," coolly. The boys returned, Longbottom unaccountably severe and Fitzgerald somewhat diminished. Narcissa hadn't thought Longbottom had it in him to be reproving.

The experience of eating dinner with the three of them rather like that of talking to Longbottom, only louder and faster. But the conversation was as lucid and wandering as before, and Narcissa stayed quiet, absorbing and adapting – observe and change, that was the way to get through life with the minimum amount of worry, and she prided herself on being good at it. She spoke only when asked for an opinion. Longbottom and Helen had nominated her as the sensible one, and laughingly tried to draw her into the conversation, and she tried, gracefully, to decline. But Gryffindors are surprisingly persevering creatures, and after a while she surrendered and even tried to make a joke here and there. Fitzgerald was quieter than his ebullient friends, but produced, on occasion, evidence of a sharp mind. It wasn't that he was particularly clever, Naricssa thought, mildly frustrated. Just that he was aware and suspicious. She knew of the family, or course: the Fitzgeralds were numerous and common, like Weasleys or Prewitts, but it did not necessarily follow that all of them were stupid. After dinner they attempted to take her along to Helen's flat, where they were meeting some other friends. She demurred, smiling. Longbottom shrugged. "She's mysterious, that one. I'm surprised you put up with us as long as you did, Miss Black."

Fitzgerald said, dryly, "Yes, but does she want to stay? And why?"

Helen slapped Fitzgerald lightly on the shoulder. Outgoing herself, she appeared to have taken a liking to the composed Narcissa. "Oh, come on," she said, taking hold of Narcissa's arm with a surprisingly firm grip. "I am going to feel _horrible_ leaving you alone in London, all by yourself in some gloomy hotel room. The least we can do is give you a drink, or something."

"Helen," Fitzgerald started. "You shouldn't - "

She looked at him. "Costos, it won't do any harm. And it's _my_ house. And she's coming." And Narcissa could not argue with her.

As they walked through the streets that twisted off behind Diagon Alley, still laughing, Costos Fitzgerald fell into step beside her. "Miss – oh, hell, what do I call you? I always hated etiquette. Right. Narcissa. Are you wondering why they're being so nice to you?"

Narcissa was surprised – she was used to her blunt objects being literal, not figurative. "Gryffindors are known for their house pride. So are Slytherins."

"You are cryptic, aren't you?" Fitzgerald whistled. "I guess that's something else you learn as a member of one of _those_ families. Just say what you mean." He shrugged. "Formal manners…silly practice, like those gloves."

Narcissa looked down at her hands. "They are, I believe, customary."

"Don't be silly – how many people do you really think wear gloves just because some stupid old law says they're _supposed_ to?" Narcissa raised an eyebrow, a little unsure how to react. "But I never answered my own question, did I?" Fitzgerald continued, looking down at her. "Why they're being nice to you, against reason, sense and house dignity." Narcissa made a sound of assent, curious in spite of herself. "They all want to be all friendly and humane – let everybody in: no barriers, everything's all right, and we're all friends. Neither," he added, "safe nor practical."

"No, indeed," said Narcissa. She had noted his emphasis on the pronoun. "You, I take it, are not in agreement with your friends?"

"No," he answered simply. "I find you amusing, when you wish to be; intelligent, which you should be given your education; open-minded, which is surprising considering your upbringing; attractive, which is no doubt your aim; and entirely untrustworthy, which is entirely due to your parentage and house affiliations." He raised both eyebrows and dared her to challenge. "Family counts for us too, you see."

"I quite understand," she answered calmly. He did not deserve the satisfaction a response. "I must say that in the same position I would be more of your mindset."

"Merlin, you even talk formally. Weren't you listening? Say what you mean." He stopped and turned to look down at her. "Do you ever relax? Let go, you know? Have you ever had _fun_, Narcissa Black?" His eyes looked unnaturally dark in the shadows of his face, and Narcissa was startled. She was back at the gate she had discovered earlier today, whenwatching Drama and then when talking to Longbottom. Fun was not a word in the Black house. Amusement, or diversion, but never fun. Fun was something sticky and oddly shaped and probably filthy. It was, in fact, something Drama and Sirius were far better acquainted with than Narcissa.

"What do you think I'm doing now, if not taking a risk?" she asked, meeting his gaze directly. Then added tartly, "And that's Miss Black to you, Mr. Fitzgerald."

Helen's flat was already inhabited by people when they arrived. Just enough, Helen said cheerfully, for a really good party. The names drifted past Narcissa's ears: Cameron MacIntyre and his younger sister Alice, a year below Narcissa, who made Longbottom go bright pink and even more clumsy than usual. Greg Starrett, whose younger sister was in Sirius's year. Edmund and Aethelred Adler, brothers who would debate with anyone who stood still long enough to make a concrete statement. It took approximately five seconds for Fitzgerald and Aethelred to get into an argument and their cheerful voices underscored the rest of the conversation. There were more too, peoplewhom she had seen or heard of atHogwarts, but hadnever spoken to. Most of them had been Gryffindors and a few years ahead of her.

Not all of them, she noticed, were of Longbottom's friendly nature, and there was a distinct coldness from a few. Hovering on the edges of the main crowd, she found herselfdrawn into the debate, which had grown to include both Adlers and Kit Harvey, a Ravenclaw whom Narcissa vaguely knew. And then she found herself talking, arguing, glaring at a united front of Harvey and Fitzgerald, who were determined that all order must be abolished to create a new society. "I thought you were a communist, not an anarchist," said Cameron Adler sourly to Fitzgerald.

"I think you'll find that the line between the two is somewhat thin," said Narcissa, voicing opinions she'd never before dared to articulate. "The oppressed become the oppressors – it's a demonstrable fact of nature, so whether your communists or anarchists take power, you'll end up with a system much worse than the one you've got now."

"But anarchists don't take power," said Harvey, his face tinged with a delicate pink.

"I beg your pardon. What do they do with it?" Narcissa raised an eyebrow at the young man and watched him quell, slightly. Clearly he had never been exposed to the Black drawing room on a Thursday when the neighbors came calling.

"Well, they overturn it, of course," said Aethelred Adler, unintimidated.

"And then what? Someone takes power and the result is a dictatorship; look at what's happening in Russia. I'll stick to what we have now, thank you."

"You only say that because you're privileged under the present system," Fitzgerald snapped back.

Narcissa shrugged delicately. "Of course I do; I am a realist, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered. "Find me someone in my position who _will_ say they are unhappy." An image of Sirius, silenced and desperately trying not to cry, flashed through her head and was quickly replaced by that of an older Sirius, standing in a street, laughing, his face and voice full of bitterness that had much the same effect. Fitzgerald opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, looking confused.

Helen, with a guitar in her hand, intervened. "Come now, you lot, stop being anti-social. There's to be no more politics here. Besides, Kit is going to play his guitar for us."

"I am?" Harvey looked petrified at the very thought.

"You are," said Helen firmly, and handed over the instrument. Harvey took his time tuning it, and finally began to play. When he had worked up the courage, he also sang, in a slightly wobbly voice. Fitzgerald, laughter glinting in his eyes, took pity on his friend and picked up the melody in a rich, chocolaty baritone. He was joined by both MacIntyres, singing a cheeky harmony in thirds. They played through three verses, by which point Narcissa had picked up the melody, if not the words. Comfortable among the cushions, she added a descant, almost out of habit, which surprised her as much as anyone else: she'd been surrounded by music for years, but had never really thought about enjoying it. Music was an Accomplishment – it was something everyone did. The non-singing members of the audience applauded, and Narcissa flushed. For once being the centre of attention was immodest; wrong, somehow. She dropped out, and the others did a number of songs then, mostly witty, fast ones with clever innuendos built into the lyrics. Those that watched shy Alice, uninhibited by music, giggled at her facial expressions, while the sly quirk of her brother's eyebrow set Helen choking on her drink. Even Narcissa laughed a little, confused and conscious of being out of her element.

"Let me see that," Fitzgerald, bright-eyed and still laughing, took the guitar from Harvey. "Go get a drink, Kit. You deserve one after that. And for these philistines, too." He grinned at the audience. Then he struck a few chords and began to sing softly, a dimple peeking from his left cheek, "When and I was a little tiny boy, with a heigh-ho, the wind and the rain." And once again, the lyrics rendered them all senseless with laughing. Then he sang a drinking song – "for tonight we'll merry, merry be; tomorrow we'll be sober" – and they all pounded on the closest hard surface, intoxicated by music and good company. It was late, Narcissa noticed. The room, warm with laughter and fraternity, swirled around her and the mood blended with the music. She rested her elbow on the arm of the sofa and allowed herself, for once, to stop paying attention.

She supposed she must have fallen asleep for some of it, and she opened her eyes again on the love songs, the soft lilt that finishes every evening of music. "And the trees are sweetly blooming, all around the blooming heather. Will you go, lassie, go?" sang Greg Starrett in his silky tenor. "Come and kiss me, sweet and twenty, youth's a stuff will not endure" added Kit's high, reedy voice. "I don't know why I can't think of anything I would rather do, than be wasting my time on mountains with you" answered the intertwined voices of Alice MacIntyre and Francis Longbottom. Narcissa leaned her head on her hand and watched the quicksilver Fitzgerald bend over the guitar again, then look up, straight at her. "Tell me, where is fancy bred? In the heart or in the head?" It was as if he were asking her the question, and Narcissa found she could not conceive of an answer. "Let us all ring fancy's knell. I'll begin it, ding dong bell."

Her mind heavy, her body limpid and saturated with the music, Narcissa was convinced to stay the night – it was too late to find a room anywhere else anyway – and found herself curled up in a nest of blankets on the living room sofa, her head resting on someone else's robes. All her tired mind was able to think before she fell deeply and truly asleep was that this was possibly the most surreal night she had ever spent anywhere in her life.

_(A/N) First off, thank you to my wonderful reviewers who tell me wonderful things, or point out things I should have noticed, and that goes both for SQ readers and all you lovely fanfic writers. Especially the ones I tracked down and begged for reviews (SmileVampy, you're lovely. Did I mention that). Secondly, there are several references in this chapter to things that I certainly did not make up. Half of me is tempted to credit them so I don't get sued; the other half likes to leave it to you to find them yourselves. Well, the songs are either traditional or Shakespeare; the duet is from (again) Chess. _


	4. The Perils of Reading Newspapers

She was awakened by the sizzling of something frying. She sat up, blinking, the smell of eggs and hot bacon winding about her nose and making her feel slightly ill. Narcissa Black pushed her hair out her eyes and admitted, first to a state of existence, and second to a strong desire for black coffee. She was sitting on Helen Fitzgerald's floor in a flat in London where she had spent the night. No self-respecting Black would have let themselves be caught dead in such a situation. _I should_, she thought a little tiredly, _have gone to Grimmauld Place like Mr. Malfoy told me to_. But the house elves were the only ones in residence right now, and she disliked her aunt's heavy, formal home. It was lonely and the lure of the music had been too strong… The owner of the flat came around the door. "Morning," Helen said cheerfully, tossing Narcissa a fuzzy yellow bathrobe. "Here. Francis says you didn't have any luggage, so I thought you'd need something to wear." Wordlessly, Narcissa took the bathrobe; terrycloth was not her natural element, but it was warm and the rub of fabric on her arms made her feel a bit more alive. For lack of anything better to do, she followed Helen into the kitchen. It appeared she hadn't been the only one to stay the night; where had they all slept? Surely the flat wasn't _that_ big? Alice was standing by the stove, humming, while her brother, shaved and wide-awake, read the paper. Longbottom chatted, in a rather strained manner, with both MacIntyres and nursed a mug. "Tea or coffee?" Helen asked, prodding the kettle with her wand.

"Coffee, please." Narcissa sat down at the table and, because she needed something to occupy herself with, picked up the part of the paper MacIntyre wasn't reading.

"Toast?" asked Alice. "Eggs? Sausage? I know there's marmite and chocolate spread around here somewhere, if you'll just give me a minute to find it - "

"Why not just offer us a three-layer cake?" said her brother dryly.

"Oh, did you want cake?" Helen came back into the room again in time to rescue to kettle, which was threatening to boil over. "I've got some, somewhere."

"Gah," said MacIntyre. "It was a joke. Who eats cake for breakfast?"

"I do," answered Longbottom mildly. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Cake actually works really well as breakfast food," said Alice. "You know, the squashy, fruity ones. Like, uh, spice cakes, or those ones with oranges on the top…" she trailed off. "No one knows what I'm talking about, do they?"

"It's all right, love," said her brother. "We don't, usually."

"Shut it, you. _She_ agrees with me, so I'm at least justified." Longbottom looked at Alice and they both blushed.

"Here's your coffee," said Helen. Narcissa sipped it and winced. "No good?"

"Helen," said Longbottom, "I love you dearly, but your coffee is absolutely revolting. What do you think, Narcissa?"

"I'm afraid - "

"See, an independent opinion." Longbottom held his arms out wide like a master of ceremonies. He turned a grin on Narcissa. "You fancy making the coffee?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do us a favour and save us from Helen's coffee. Please?"

Narcissa smiled without realizing it. Longbottom punched the air. "Oh ho! I made her smile," he announced to his invisible audience. To Narcissa, "You're being spontaneous. Brill."

Something about his phrasing was familiar. She put the newspaper down and walked to the counter where various coffee-making implements lay scattered. She said, over her shoulder, "Have you been talking to Fitzgerald?"

Longbottom smiled guiltily and nodded. "He said you didn't have enough fun. And – well, and other stuff."

Narcissa poured ground coffee into the coffee-maker, curious in spite of herself. Although, she thought a moment later, there was was absolutely _no_ reason why she should care what Constantine Fitzgerald thought of her. "What else did he say?"

He shrugged. "Things."

"What _things_?" Narcissa leaned on the counter and crossed her arms, giving the seated man one of her sweeter smiles.

"You know...we were just talking."

Narcissa shrugged coyly. "Are you _sure_ you won't tell me?" No answer. "Who wanted coffee?"

"Me," said Cameron MacIntyre. "And one for Alice."

"Me please," said Longbottom. Narcissa ignored him and handed mugs to MacIntyre and Alice.

"I could threaten not to give it to you until you told me what you were saying about me," said Narcissa peaceably, "but that would be childish."

"Well threaten in vain," said Longbottom laughing. "You don't stand a chance," he added, diving towards her.

"What you forgot to take into account," said Helen conversationally, "is that Francis _is_ extremely childish." Narcissa ducked out of the way almost too late and fended off Longbottom as he tried to grab her around the waist. She was aware of giggles welling up inside her. It _was_ childish, but, sweet Merlin, it was _fun_. She twisted neatly under his arm and pushed him backwards, coffeepot poised above his head. "Well. Tell me, or I'll pour."

Longbottom looked up. "I'd never have expected that from her," he said to no one. "He just said that if we insisted on having you here we might as well take advantage of it and see if we could teach you to laugh."

Narcissa backed away. "I know how to laugh," she said, shaken. Then louder, she added, "it's none of your business." She put the coffee pot down and returned to the table, retrieving the paper. Around her, people shrugged and Helen asked what they thought about the Warbeck girl who'd come third at Eurovision. Narcissa flipped through the paper, scanning the headlines, and was caught by one.

_MANOR HOUSE DEATH_

_Kids, don't try this at home! Former Beauxbatons student Julia Desmoulins, 18, was discovered dead in posh Surrey manor yesterday. Desmoulins, niece and adopted daughter of leading member of the Wizarding community Abraxas Malfoy, was staying with her uncle at his summer retreat when, Sunday, she suffered a fatal accident in her private laboratory. "It is a great tragedy," says Madame Carlotta Lescaut, a professor at Beauxbatons Academy. Desmoulins had already made a name for herself in potions research and had, according to Lescaut, "extraordinary talent for her age."_

Narcissa put the paper down. She felt sick. A small mystery had been tidily solved and she now knew the reason why she was here and not home. Because – she couldn't even think properly; she didn't even want to say it in her head, because then it would be true and she would have to deal with it. Julia. Dizzily, she realized that of course mother didn't want her back at the manor; Mother would view the presence of journalists and police as an unpleasant necessity. Her youngest daughter would never be tangled in _that kind of thing_. She placed her hands flat on the table, staring at her nails, quelling rage. A childish rage at being left out of something important. Her _place_ was at the manor. It was where she was meant to be, offering support and comfort; being reliable. It was habit, she thought, still dizzy. Habit for a family to pull together when something went wrong. And the habit ran deep; she should be there.

But she wasn't at the manor. She was here, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe and sitting in this airy flat full of carefree people bantering amiably over breakfast. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to focus. Hands flat on the print tablecloth. Maybe the world would stop spinning if she could just keep her hands clear. "Um, Narcissa?" said Longbottom from somewhere far away. "Is she all right? I - "

"Here, I'm a mediwizard," said another voice.

"Well, almost," said someone else.

"Shut up," said the first voice abstractly. "Miss Black? Narcissa, can you hear me?" The voices seemed to be coming from even farther away now. Her range of vision narrowed to a pinpoint of light and then the patchy darkness slid over her eyes. She felt hands on her shoulders, and then nothing at all.

"Narcissa? Narcissa?" Someone was shaking her, just a little, and she was awkwardly sprawled across someone's lap and chest. She could feel his voice buzzing a little by her ear. She wondered, briefly, what was happening, and where she was. Then, in a sort of instinctual twitch, she remembered. She was in London because Mother wouldn't allow her to come home, because Julia – Julia was dead. "Please," she murmured vaguely, "Lucius will be frantic. Please, let me go."

"If this is Lucius Malfoy," said the voice gently, "I doubt he'll be anything of the sort. At least not in public. Can you sit up?" Hands gripped her shoulders and helped her to sit. Finally she opened her eyes, since it appeared she was definitely conscious, and focused into the mildly quizzical grey eyes of Constantine Fitzgerald. "What happened?"

Distressed, she could only choke, "Julia – I must get back. I'm so sorry, I can't - "

"Mademoiselle Desmoulins?" said Fitzgerald. "I saw the paper, but I don't think they did. Would you like me to tell them, or – ?"

"Please, don't," she said and slumped a little into his supporting hands.

He nodded, then said, rather more loudly, "There, you'll be all right. Can you stand?"

"Yes," said Narcissa, and did. Then, carefully, she sat down at her place at the table. Fitzgerald, with a disingenuous grin, spilled tea on the newspaper.

"Goodness! Are you all right?" said Helen. She looked a bit shocked.

"Yes, are you?" echoed Alice who looked more nervous than anything else.

Narcissa looked at the girls' open faces, and the equally concerned faces of the boys and felt - flattered that they bothered to ask. After all, she didn't mean anything to them. "Yes, thank you," she said. "A little shaky."

"I imagine it's because no one has given her any breakfast yet," said Fitzgerald. "And she didn't eat much last night either. Lack of food has that effect on some people."

"And how would you know that?" said MacIntyre.

"Experience," said Fitzgerald. "I'm very delicate." MacIntyre laughed. "No, I'm serious. I have," he leaned in his chair in a way not unlike Narcissa was doing now, and fell back in it, one hand on his forehead, "a delicate constitution." He covered his mouth and coughed weakly.

"Does that mean we have to feed you or you'll faint too?" said Alice.

"Yes," he said cheerfully, sitting up again. "Especially if those are hot sausages I smell."

"There you go," said Helen. "Problem solved: don't feed him and then we won't have to worry about him."

Narcissa, numb, managed through the rest of breakfast by trying to think of nothing at all. She had, after all, weathered worse, and Fitzgerald kept the attention away from her, for which she was grateful. Eventually people began to drift off towards the bathroom and getting the day started. As he passed, Fitzgerald touched her shoulder. She looked up. "I didn't say so earlier, but I'm very sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

_Take me home where I belong_, she almost said, engulfed in a wave of homesickness so strong she nearly began to cry. "No, thank you," her calm voice answered, looking out at him through a composed face with perhaps slightly agitated eyes. "I'd just like to be alone for a bit."

He nodded quietly and rubbed her shoulder. "I think I could arrange that. I'll explain to Helen if you want to go somewhere else tonight, but I think they'd all like it if you stayed."

"They would?" She was surprised again.

"Oh, yes." His mouth quirked. "They like you, though Merlin knows why. Certainly isn't your debating skills, anyway."

Narcissa's mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?" she said, automatically, helplessly. Then she noticed the grin and found herself, well, perhaps not grinning, exactly, but certainly smiling, in response. "Now, wait just a minute!" She said. "Don't try and get rid of me just because I know what's happening in Russia."

Fitzgerald laughed, his eyes crinkling and a dimple appearing in his left cheek. "Oh, all right then. Helen would probably kick me downstairs if I frightened you away." He paused. "No, but seriously..."

"No, really Mr. Fitzgerald, I - "

He held up a hand. "Costos, please. It's got fewer syllables."

"I – Thank you," said Narcissa.

"You're certainly welcome, but I'm really just doing my job," said Fitzgerald – Costos – and moved away.

Helen and that lot had to go to work and Narcissa got her day to herself after all. She went back into Diagon Alley again. Hard to believe it was just yesterday she had left Drama here and met Longbottom in the shop. Hard to believe that yesterday morning everything had been, more or less, normal. She spent several hours in the bookstore, hidden in the stacks reading. She was searching for a touch of effervescent peace among the shelves and found it for a little.

Emerging into the sunshine with a sort of resigned calm, she passed Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and saw, on the deck, Drama with a group of friends. She paused, eyed them from under the brim of her hat, picked up her skirts – drat, she'd have to buy a new dress today as well; Madam Malkin's ready-mades weren't completely horrible, were they? – and moved on. A moment later, Drama caught up with her. "Are you all right?" she asked. Narcissa looked at her older sister.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Well, I read in the paper this morning and – I guess that's why you're still in London, right?"

"Yes."

"Look , Cis. I'm sorry." Drama darted forward and awkwardly hugged Narcissa. "It's this bloody _political_ _mess_. I wish – Hell. I wish this were easier."

"Drama," said Narcissa carefully, "What are you talking about?"

"It's just – you're spoiled, Cis. Cause you're the little one. And, well, I'm not happy all the time and I just – look, Cis. I don't get it, but there's something about you that's madly damsel-in-distress. People want to make you happy." Drama grinned, her nose wrinkling. "And that includes me."

"Thank you," said Narcissa because she couldn't think of anything else to say. However home made Drama feel, she looked happy at the moment. She was almost glowing.

"Where are you staying?" her sister asked.

"Um," said Narcissa, caught off guard. "With Helen Fitzgerald and some of her friends."

Drama's mouth dropped open and then she laughed. "No _way_," she said. "You do know Mother would hit the _roof_ if she knew that's where you were staying? Anyway, I've got to run. Look after yourself; I think both of the dreadfully dashing Malfoys are in London." She grinned again. "Oh, and Cis,"

"Yes?"

"Have fun."

**(A/N)** Thank you to my reviewers, as always (especially **Ariseye**, who just bumped my review count up to 20. Hoorah for her!). And I do not, of course, own Harry Potter. Pity, that. Oh, and when you finish this, I'd highly recommend the further adventures of Narcissa Black-Malfoy in the form of **Tom O'Bedlam**'s Harry Potter fics, which are extremely good.


	5. A Game of Chess

Standard "I don't own it" jokes apply. Costos is quoting from Cole Porter and at the end he and Narcissa both quote from the musical _Chess_. It's wonderful; go listen to it sometime. I'm not completely certain about this chapter, so someone let me know if it's too long, too pointless, too repetitious, etc. Right, that's out of the way…

She returned to the flat around five, comfortable again after a day with herself and her own thoughts. She adapted well; that was what made everybody like her, because she was graceful and lovely and comfortable in any situation. She had decided that she could adapt to this too. It wasn't, she felt instinctively, her natural environment as it was Drama's, but she could live here for a little. She might even – but she shied away from this thought – like it.

She entered in this calm frame of mind to see Alice sitting on the sofa with her head in her hands, Costos next to her, his hand on her shoulder and talking softly. Narcissa paused. He looked up and his eyes told her to come in. She felt a slight pang for these two and wondered where it had come from. "Has something happened?" she asked, because it was expected.

Costos grimaced; she suspected he disliked the question. "Yes," he said shortly, "Or we wouldn't be like this."

"Excuse me," said Narcissa. "Would you prefer it if I left?" She was standing just inside the doorway, alert in green and white, poised.

"No, I imagine you'll," he grimaced again, "sympathize. Merlin, I hate that word." He shrugged. "One of her uncles has been murdered."

Narcissa winced at the savageness of the emphasis on the last word. "I'm sorry," she said, honestly and then wondered where that feeling came from. She didn't know these people. They weren't friends, and they certainly weren't family, but she felt some kinship with them all the same. Why?

Costos seemed to have no more to say, so she turned and went to the kitchen. Narcissa had lived with house-elves her whole life, and the only thing she knew how to make was coffee. She glared at the kitchen. It reflected herself, useless and helpless, in the backs of pots and pans. Finally she picked up the cookbook and opened it, trying to find something easy to make. Working under an impetus she didn't recognize and didn't understand, she rolled up her immaculate sleeves and set to work with her wand, trying to create something edible. She found that she liked Alice MacIntyre. And Alice was obviously in no condition to be cooking, or anything else. So she, Narcissa Black, daughter of a proud bloodline, forced herself to boil water, chop cucumbers and pour drinks. And when she had everything the way she liked it, she went to the door of the kitchen and looked into the living room. Alice and Costos were talking, but they both looked up. Helen, obviously just returned, was also sitting on the sofa. "I didn't mean to disturb you," she said. "But I wondered if you were hungry."

She couldn't sleep that night. She lay, curled on the sofa staring at the little living room spangled in moonlight from the big window. Part of her wished, oh so desperately, that she were home. Home at least she knew the rules and understood what to do when. She turned over, transferring her gaze to the ceiling. Where was Cameron? She still hadn't figured out why Alice had come to friends instead of going home to her family to mourn. MacIntyre...the name was familiar. It took her a few moments to remember it: Jock MacIntyre, who was an Auror. Her instinctive thought was to shake Alice for being silly. Aurors never had long life spans; if someone in your family went into training, there was a sizeable risk they would die young. You accepted that.

Narcissa thought of home again, trying to imagine exactly what was happening there in her absence. The guests would have been informed. Except for the ones who had obviously panicked and called the paper, the rest would have remained calm. She suspected those who had panicked had been carefully escorted from the grounds, probably not to be invited back. Malfoy hospitality. The others, though, would have transfigured their clothes to black. Bella and Mother would put black crêpe over the doors and organize the funeral. Well, they should. Mother would organize it and Bella would act as though she had done something. As usual. Again Narcissa felt the ache in her breast for her own world and a heavy guilt that she was not at home in her place in the household, which was to arrange flowers, take calls, and glide, black-clad, from room to room offering solace and drinks. The duties, she realized suddenly, of hostess.

She sat up, resting her head in her hands. Why should it bother you? she asked herself. You've been steered in that direction for years. You've been helping Marguerite and Julia organize parties since you were thirteen; there is nothing more natural than you becoming the hostess during their mourning. And if Lucius asks to consider staying as, what, permanent hostess afterwards, well, that's what you wanted. What are you afraid of?

Her mind drifted free again and she remembered seeing Alice sitting on the sofa this evening in just this way. She had seemed so sad; grief-stricken, almost. Why? Narcissa straightened and tucked her feet up under her. No one at the manor would be surprised about Julia. Well, surprised, perhaps, but no one would sit and sob from grief. It would have been a breach of politeness if she had fainted at the manor, if she had been home this morning. Working for the Dark Lord was like being an Auror in that you ran significant risks. The Malfoys and Blacks and all the others understood that. At home, Bella and Mother and the guests would be gliding from here to there, appreciating the formalities, but no one would sit on the sofa and sob the way little Alice MacIntyre had done. And alone. Why? Oh, why? They were so happy; you'd think they had no cares in the world but then something like this happened, and they were shattered. They didn't even have family to close ranks around them and support them. It was living at extremes, which Narcissa never did.

Narcissa felt more wide awake than she had before. She stood and moved quietly into the kitchen. Perhaps a drink of water was what she needed. She paused at the doorway, seeing that it was already occupied by a shape a little darker than the night shadows.

"Narcissa?" said the shape. "Couldn't sleep either?" It was Costos Fitzgerald, she saw, as he woke the lights with their trigger charm.

"No," she said.

"I've just come from Alice's place," said Costos. "Coffee?" he added. "I put some on."

"Is she all right?" Narcissa asked.

Costos shrugged. "I suppose so. She's just lost a family member."

Narcissa sighed, a frustrated gesture. "I don't understand – " she began.

"Don't understand what?" Costos pushed a mug between her fingers, then sat down at the table. She joined him.

"He was an Auror. Didn't she realize that something was going to happen?"

Costos's eyebrows jerked together. "You mean you know something about – about how he died?"

Narcissa blinked. "No, nothing like that. It's just common sense. Aurors don't exactly have long life expectancies."

"Perhaps," Costos stared into his coffee cup as if he hoped to divine his own life expectancy. "But you don't think of that when they die, do you?"

"I do," said Narcissa before she could think to stop herself.

"_Do_ you?"

"I'm not making light of what she feels, just that it's logical that some people are more likely to die before others. I, well, I didn't expect Julia to," she swallowed, "to die, but I can accept that. She was playing with old potions; research is always dangerous. So, you see, I don't need to sob for hours."

"But you, Narcissa, are a good deal more complicated than Alice," said Costos in a way that wasn't a compliment. He tapped his fingers on the table and then shook his head, looking up at her. She could see herself in his eyes, pale in the dim lights, dressed in one of Helen's white nightgowns with her hair unbound in a straight fall of pale gold down her back, seated erect on the chair, detached and alien. "That's the problem with the old families. They bring up their children too quickly."

Narcissa bit her lip. "You waste emotion," she said, continuing on her train of thought and ignoring his. It was easier than acknowledging it; thinking about it.

"_Waste_ it?" said Costos, surprised. "But it's there to be used. There's not a finite amount of emotion in the world, Narcissa!"

She shrugged. "It's easier to conserve it. You're sad less of the time."

"And you're also happy less of the time," said Costos fervently. "Everything balances. Look at you."

"Me?" she asked, faintly astonished. "What have I got to do with this? I'm only an outside observer."

Costos reached across the table and lifted her hand, turning it over. He placed two fingers on the inside of her wrist, holding tightly for one minute, two minutes. Then he let her go. "You're human, Narcissa; you've got a pulse. There's no way you _can_ be an outside observer. You've started to change in the last two days, too."

"I have?"

"You can't feel it?" He smiled. "Trust me, you have. You're thinking about things. You've sung with us; you've been happy, you've laughed." He shrugged. "You've made choices; you've done things you wouldn't ordinarily have done." He caught her hands. "You're living."

Narcissa looked away from him, drawing her hands back to arrange them neatly in front of her. She had, indeed, done everything he had said. What difference had that made? She had begun, tentatively, to be happy. "And what of it?" she said. "I adapt to everything. But," something made her add, "I am enjoying myself."

"Are you?" he said, and for a moment, their eyes locked over the table. Then Costos looked away and took another drink of coffee, returning to the lightly urbane. "Well, the result is that we have all gotten to know you, which otherwise, I suspect we would not." As if on another thought, he added, "Strange, dear, but true, dear," then stopped abruptly. "Well, I'm not going to be able to sleep."

Narcissa surveyed the bottom of her mug. "Nor am I."

Costos got up and went in to the next room returning a moment later with a wooden box which he placed on the table in front of her. "Would I be right in guessing that you play chess?" His eyes twinkled.

She nodded. "You would. Are you sure you want to play?"

"Why do you ask?" There was a note of challenge in his voice.

"I think you people are a little – simple for games of strategy. No one ever beats me."

"Narcissa," said Costos, passing her a handful of white pawns, "that is because you live in a passionless vacuum and keep your love for abstract things. Besides, no one ever beats me either. Just because I am not part of your precious insiders club of the rich and stuffy does not mean I can't play chess."

Narcissa met his glower with a glare that was a half indignant and half insulted. Then she thought of how Bella and Mother would react to being called rich and stuffy, and began, helplessly, to giggle. She quelled it after a moment, and looked down at the pawns in her hand. "Why am I playing white?"

"You like strategy," said Costos. "I'm going to let you go first. And my sense of irony is amused."

After the first five moves, Narcissa admitted he knew what he was doing. An hour later, she was willing to admit he might be quite good. A considerable time later as she faced Costos over a nearly empty board and queened a pawn, she saw the single, emphatic, _damn_ in the back of his eyes that meant she had won. It was only a matter of moves until she planted a rook in front of Costos's king and said, "Check, and mate."

Costos tipped his king over and shook his head. "You _are_ good." It occurred to Narcissa that while she had been observing him play, he had also been observing her. She told herself severely that she was _not_ going to ask him what he thought he had learned.

"Well, so are you," she answered. Lines from somewhere drifted through her head. "You," she added, absently. "You are so strange."

Costos picked up the rest of the verse and answered, smiling a little. "Why can't you be what you ought to be? You should be scheming, intriguing, too clever by half." He paused, as he had earlier this evening, as if he meant to say more, then apparently decided not to. "It's bed for me, I think. Goodnight."


	6. Aladdin's Cave

Yes, yes I actually do update this occasionally. Don't be too afraid, it's almost done. Ah, who the hell am I talking to? Nobody reads this anyway. Yay for vanity press! Well. No one is mine except the Fitzgeralds. The song is Cole Porter's "So in love with you am I" from Kiss Me, Kate. At least I think that's the title. Whatever. It's in there. This was written mainly to get Narcissa out of pastels, and because I really, really miss London, especially the tube and the charity shops near Portobello Road. 

She woke early to the sound of voices in the kitchen. And with a sound that might have been a grunt from any teenager who had less innate elegance than Narcissa Black, she turned over and went back to sleep. Much later, she woke again with a bar of bright gold sunlight in her face that wouldn't move. So she opened her eyes and cast a weary gaze around, and then, with effort, got up and stumped to the bathroom.

She felt – she couldn't quite describe how she felt. Tired. Her eyes were gritty and her joints still seemed to be asleep. "Rise and shine, Sweetpea," the mirror informed her. Narcissa, inspecting her face in the mirror, wished it would shut up. She paused, startled by something, and leaned forward. Her eyes, large and blue, were the same as they had always been, but below them… "I have bags?" she said out loud, staring at the unsightly dark circles. _That's what happens when you stay up until three in the morning_, a tart mental voice reminded her. But still…it was unsettling to be showing the signs of it. _You're living_, said Costos Fitzgerald's voice, echoing in the back of her head.

She brushed her hair carefully and tied it back, then rooted through the drawers. She had cosmetics with her, of course, but she wanted something a bit more effective. Surely someone in this house kept a good concealer around? She did find one eventually, and went to work repairing her face as best she could. It was unnerving to be look in the mirror one day and see a face she didn't expect. _I don't want to change_, she thought desperately. _But_… There was always that "but." She didn't know when it had slid into the back of her mind, a lucid fish of a dissention, but it was there. Perhaps it had something to do with a late-night chess game and broken-off quotations of songs she didn't know. Or a warm hand holding hers for a moment, wide mouth crooked in amusement. She swallowed. _Don't be silly, Narcissa_.

Helen was in the kitchen, singing. Narcissa paused to listen to her low contralto resonating off the tiling to surprisingly tuneful effect. "Strange, dear, but true, dear, when I'm close to you dear, the stars fill the sky, so in love with you am I…"

Something akin to, but not quite, dread woke in Narcissa's stomach. She knew that song; she'd heard it quoted last night. Could he have meant…? No. Unthinkable. A Fitzgerald considering a pure-blood Black in anything but the most respectful terms was ridiculous.

"So haunt me, and hurt me, deceive me, desert me: I'm yours till I die – Oh, good morning." Helen smiled at her and Narcissa smiled back, shakily. Francis Longbottom waved. "I'm afraid the hoards haven't left you any breakfast, but it's eleven now. Would you like some lunch?"

"Yes, thank you."

Helen grinned. "You'll have to make your own coffee – I've learned my lesson."

"Could you make me a cup as well?" said Longbottom with a cheeky grin. "She really makes good coffee, and you have to get that where you find it."

Narcissa perched on her chair, which didn't feel quite solid yet. The tiredness hovered behind her eyes and she felt wound up for no reason she could pin point. _In love with a night mysterious_. No. Stop it.

Longbottom got up finally. "Thank you, Helen," he said, quite seriously. "We both, um, appreciate everything you're doing, very much."

"Really, Francis…" she smiled. "That pompous attitude is just too much. Look, we have to help out where we can." Her words trailed off and the confident Helen Fitzgerald paused, sighed, and continued. "We all need support. Now, look, if you need anything, I'll be happy to see Crouch - "

"_Crouch_? Good heavens, what does she think I'm going to need? He's not even my department, superior-mine."

"Or anybody else. Just tell me, all right?"

"Of course all right." Longbottom smiled a little.

"Will I see you tonight?"

"Maybe."

Carefully, Helen leaned forward to hug Longbottom. Narcissa, unused to displays of affection, turned away and busied herself, mechanically, with the coffee, effacing herself as she served it.

Helen saw him out, then came back in and plumped herself down at the table. "So," she said. "You coming tonight?"

Narcissa looked up. "Where?"

"Oh, a whole load of us are going over to Galahad – you know, on Diagon Alley. You should come."

"Oh," said Narcissa. Galahad? She searched her memory. But that was a club. For dancing and drinking and smoking and other things that nice girls didn't do. The little niggling _but_ returned, stronger this time. _But…but I want to do that. I want to try that_. She weighed the headiness of staying awake half the night against the predictable undertow of the old families. She was here, wasn't she? "All right." She paused. "I – I haven't anything to wear."

"Of course you don't, you poor thing," said Helen. "And you haven't for the last few days, either. I'm being a lousy hostess – sorry about that." She pinched her nose. "Things are a bit complicated at the moment." Then she looked up. "Tell you what – I need a break. Let's hit Notting Hill Gate for some crazy party clothes."

"Notting Hill Gate?" said Narcissa. "Is there anything over there?"

"Yes…" said Helen with a grin that made her look startlingly like her cousin. "If you know where to look and have Muggle cash. You ready to go?"

Narcissa followed Helen, s lightly appalled. Staying with this lot was one thing, but if her parents found out she'd been in _Muggle London_. They went to Gringott's and changed their money, then went into the Leaky Cauldron, and out again the other side. Narcissa swallowed, looking around at the masses of – well, muggles, moving at worrying speed in and out of the bookstore. She felt the brief chill of a charm and looked at Helen. The other girl's robe was now a pair of tight blue trousers with a yellow top. Narcissa realized she was wearing something similar. "Was that a glamour charm?" she asked.

"Yep," said Helen. "Follow me and try not to get lost. We want the Leicester Square station."

As directed, Narcissa followed. She watched the muggles around them. It was like watching an ant hill, full of strange customs one couldn't understand but probably had some kind of limited reason within their own society. She also looked at what people were wearing. Most of it was questionable and occasionally completely inappropriate. While stopped at a zebra crossing, Narcissa leaned back into a corner and cast another glamour charm, this one giving her a white skirt and green blouse. Much better than trying to walk in trousers.

Helen looked back at her and said, "All right then. Just don't change your clothes in public."

"I should hope not," said Narcissa tartly. Helen giggled. "I don't like trousers," she added. "They make me feel like I'm cross-dressing."

"Not for muggles," said Helen, apparently at home in hers. "But if you're going to be in drag, this is the place to do it. Here, we're going down into that building."

They pushed through a crowd of people clustered near a ticket booth. Then, underground. It was loud, crowded, smelly. Narcissa should have hated it. But at the same time, there was speed, life, and the need to move very quickly from one place to another. It was invigorating. They changed trains once, and finally got out somewhere else entirely.

Once out in the air again, they walked a few blocks over and stopped in front of a shop with a bright red door that announced itself as _Portobello Road Charity Shop_. "Excellent," said Helen. "I was hoping they'd be open. Well, as far as we're concerned, this is Aladdin's Cave."

Narcissa looked at the red door, then back at a Helen. "Open Sesame," she said.

It was Aladdin's Cave. The front of the store was full of exquisite vintage gowns that made Narcissa stop and stare, dazzled by faded taffetas and laces, old gloves and strings of false pearls. The middle was taken over by frumpy dresses and trousers, tops no one in their right mind would wear, and, here and there, a genuine piece of nice clothing you wouldn't find anywhere else. The second floor was for party clothes: neons and a curious tight fabric that grabbed you everywhere if you put it on. Narcissa was not so sure about the shorts. Garish shoes with three inch platforms, feather boas, silly hats, wigs, leather corsets, and everywhere, sequins and glitter.

"Here we go," said Helen, reappearing from behind a rack of dresses. "Let's get you out of pastels," she said, tossing at Narcissa something bright orange.

Narcissa caught it and shook it out. A dress, orange and green and covered in gold sequins. "I don't do orange."

"Purple?" said Helen, grinning.

Narcissa sighed and took the proffered top into the dressing room. "Why not just wear robes?" she asked as she pulled another dress over her head.

"Because robes are _boring_," said Helen. And that seemed to be that. "And you don't want to be boring tonight. You want people to look at you." Narcissa came out of the dressing room. Helen nodded. "That could do it."


	7. Dance with Me, Lady

I'm on a Narcissa kick at the moment, which is playing merry hell with the real world. But, on the other hand, I heartily agree that "we have really gone so far as to think of 'real life' as toil, almost as servitude, and we are all agreed that it is better in books." Thank you to the people who review at length and say that seven reviews is a crime (it is! it is!). In fact, thank you to the people who review at all! To Morganofthefaeries, I say that yes, of course it's possible to be in love with fictional characters; it's the history of my life, and I'm very, very glad you like Costos. I promise lots of tension, but hang on another 2 chapters for a declaration. I don't own various bits of this. Cookies to anyone who can find the Queen, Chess, and Dostoyevsky references, which I very obviously didn't come up with myself. And really good cookies to the person who can find the Lymond reference I forgot to credit a few chapters ago...though I doubt anybody'll take me up on that one! 

It was, Narcissa had to admit, a hell of a party. At least that's what everyone said it was. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored entranceway before they ducked through the bead curtain, following the beat of the music. She saw, briefly, a slim, pale girl with interesting cheekbones and a lot of eyeliner, wearing a short, violently pink skirt and a boned corset top. Narcissa grinned; she had insisted on buying from the front of the store, and she liked the effect of the layered black and white lace and how it complimented her colouring. She also liked the line of her chin with her hair pined up like this. Granted, it involved several holding charms and a lot of hairspray, but she liked it anyway. In pink and black and gold she was someone else. She was a clubber. Helen, dressed in red and black with her hair fluffy and teased, grabbed Narcissa as they slid through the curtain.

"You look amazing," she said. "Rock on!"

They twined their way through the crowd, Narcissa glimpsing faces she knew from Hogwarts. Up near the bar, bathed in red and purple light, she saw a small knot of people. A girl she knew vaguely waved, and then she picked out Kit Harvey, whom she remembered from the night she'd arrived. "Hey!" yelled Helen, waving. "Look what I got!"

"And look what we got!" Cameron Adler yelled, cheerfully waving a bottle.

And then they arrived, and then came the moment Narcissa had been waiting for, dreading. Seeing her reflection in his eyes again and knowing whether he liked it or not. Costos Fitzgerald blinked, then swallowed.

"Christ," he said. Then he seemed to catch his balance. "Helen took you shopping, didn't she?"

Narcissa raised one eyebrow. "As a matter of fact, yes. I wouldn't have thought you could get this assortment from a charity shop."

"Helen can," said Costos. He smiled, and something at the pit of her stomach responded. The uncomfortable feeling of constant nerves that had hovered all day descended again, to hang onto her shoulders with little, prickling claws.

She looked away, avoiding his eyes, and said, "Well, what do we do now?"

"I believe drinking is in order," said Aethelred Adler, slinging an arm around her bare shoulders, and thrusting a plastic goblet of something at her.

Narcissa sniffed, delicately. "_What_ is that?"

"S'a mix," said Adler. He was already well on the way to happy inebriation. "Cocktail. Godric's Defeat, or somethin'. S'tasty."

Narcissa took it and held it up as an ironic toast to Costos, then drank it. It tasted like several flavours of petrol. She coughed a little, and put the glass down on the bar.

Costos smiled at no on in particular. He took her hand, without, apparently, noticing the significance of the gesture. Narcissa shivered a little, her body keyed up for something – anything. "Tell me," he said, touching the back of her hand with one finger, "how used are you to drinking?"

"Nothing stronger than champagne," said Narcissa. _Although_, she thought, _it's not the alcohol that's the problem here_.

"Well, then take my advice as a mediwizard in training, and don't have anything more for a bit. Spirits will hit you in the back of the head if you're not careful."

"Um," said the usually eloquent Narcissa Black.

Costos's fingers curled around hers and pulled her away towards the dancers. "Dance with me, lady-mine," he said, softly. "Dance with me."

Narcissa felt her eyes grow wide. "I don't know how."

"It's doesn't matter. You just need to move."

She was a natural mover, something she had always known, and hidden, except when she waltzed. But this was nothing like waltzing; here she didn't need to concentrate on the belling of her dress robes, because here the music went straight to her muscles without passing through her brain. It found an outlet somewhere, shoulders, feet, hands, hips. She could feel the thud of the bass in her bones, like a second heartbeat. She could smell sweat and cigarettes and the scent of the body glitter she'd borrowed, and taste the dry flaking of her lipstick. The world was pink and green and yellow and purple and red as the lights wheeled crazily around her, catching at a disco ball suspended from the ceiling. Bits of odd light were scattered over her and Costos and the other dancing bodies. She tipped her head to the roof, raising her arms high to catch those escaping butterflies of light, then brought them down to lock behind his neck. His hands rested on her hips, coordinating their movements. _I feel alive, and the world is turning inside out, yeah, I'm floating around in ecstasy, so don't stop me now…_ came the voice of the singer, and Narcissa laughed.

"I think I'm crazy," said Costos conversationally. She shouldn't have been able to hear him that easily, but to her hyper-sensitive ear, his voice cut through the music.

"Why?"

"Any attraction of a Fitzgerald to a Black points to sheer, clinical insanity," he said.

She repositioned her head to look at him, their foreheads resting against one another. "Really? Did they tell you that in your lectures at St. Mungo's?"

"Yes, actually they did." She turned her head away, continuing to move, twisting in the music under the lights. There were mirrors along the walls and she caught a glimpse of herself, luminous and pale silver, spinning under sparkles of gold and green and blue.

"I want - " said Costos.

Narcissa looked at him, catching his grey eyes for a moment. Her voice didn't seem to work naturally. "Yes?" She leaned closer to him. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," murmured Costos. "It's that silly? I'm not quite twenty, and I don't know what I want." He ran his hand over her hair and let it trail down her neck. She shivered. It was not, she supposed, a calculated seduction, but more an expression of something natural, done without forethought. She squeezed his shoulders.

"I don't even know what you are."

"What do you mean?"

He let go of her and stepped away, watching her dancing. Narcissa continued to turn, caught up in cigarette fog and euphoria, dancing for Costos because he was watching her. _If you see the wonder of a fairy tale, you can take tomorrow, even if you fail…_ Finally, a second, a year, a millennium, later, the song stopped, and Narcissa brought her arms down.

She was hot. And – her breath stopped suddenly, abruptly, at the sight of a man near the door. Very tall, very blond, dressed in blue and silver robes, standing by another boy she thought she remembered from Slytherin. He was watching her, she could tell, and as she looked at him, he gestured to his companion, then made his way across the dance floor. His walk was quick, sinuous, and people moved out of his way automatically. Narcissa knew that walk. She knew that hair, and those hands, and the set of those shoulders.

She turned to Costos and said, abruptly, "I'm going to the loo," then dived away from the oncoming progress of Lucius Malfoy. As she ducked out of the way she saw him walk past the spot where she had stood, and over to the bar. In the women's toilet, she leaned forward, and tried to breath properly in the corset. _Lucius Malfoy is here_. _He's HERE_. The thought kept repeating itself as two different worlds collided in her head.

She stared at herself in the mirror, bare shoulders pale and covered in glitter, hair fetchingly in the process of coming down. Her cheeks were pink and she looked more animated, even to herself, than she had before. "Did he not _recognize_ me?" she asked the mirror.

The door banged and she spun around. A girl, unsteady on her feet, entered, and tripped against the sink. She fluffed her curly hair and straightened her dress, then rustled in her bag. "S'cuse me," she said turning to Narcissa. "D'you have any lippy?" Narcissa blinked. The girl blinked back, then said blankly, "Sweet fucking Merlin. Cis?"

"Hi, Drama," said Narcissa. Her sister was more than a little drunk, and had obviously been having a good time.

Drama blinked again, then said, "Balls. I'm know I'm going to have a hell of headache, but I still didn't recognize you. I mean, you look fantastic. Like someone else, you know?" Narcissa didn't move. "Well, never mind." She closed her bag. "I'm off. See ya." And the door banged behind her.

Narcissa turned back to the mirror and realized that she was looking at someone else. She was looking at one of Helen's friends, but not at the youngest, most refined of the Black daughters. Not the future ornament to a man's home. Just a girl, cheaply dressed and garishly made-up in hopes of "pulling a bloke" for a few hours or for the night. She felt like a mayfly, with one short chance of life possible. The girl in the mirror wouldn't survive. She would go back onto the dance floor and dance until late, then go and crash on someone's sofa, then do it again the next night. If anything touched, shattered, that fragile world view, she'd sink. She had no staying power. And, most damnable, worst of all, it was somebody else.

Narcissa, breathing hard, rested taut hands on the countertop. Then, with a scream that was half a gasp, she threw a pile of towels at the mirror. She put her hands up and pulled down her hair, scattering pins, sobs pushing through her lungs and threatening to come out her mouth, until finally they did, and she dropped to the floor, rocking back and forth, hands pressed over her mouth and her hair half down and sticking to her shoulders. _My sister doesn't know who I am._ And whispered in a chilly breath on the back of her neck, _I don't know who I am_.

Eventually, something asserted itself. What was she to do if someone came in? She didn't know. She stood, resolutely, and walked out of the door, pulling the final pins from her hair. Costos was where she'd left him, leaning against the wall and watching the dancers. She saw his face go directly toward hers, and then he smiled. A warm smile, dimpled and friendly, begging to comfort. She walked up to him. "What do I do when I'm not me anymore?" she said, her breathing still shaky, articulated.

Costos didn't say anything, but reached out and put his arms around her, as if it were a normal occurrence. His hands slid over her shoulders to bury themselves in her hair, long and silky and tangled down her back. She rested her face in his shoulder, and the tears came again, more softly this time. "Well, I let it happen anyhow," he whispered, rocking her like a small child, "and what I'm feeling now has no easy explanation – reason plays no part. Heaven help my heart. Sshhh. Sshhh."


	8. Dreams of Velvet and Crystal

This is for etc., in lieu of the four cookies I owe her (2 for Chess and Lymond, and 2 extras for the ABBA I forgot to credit), and because I know she wanted some Lucius (so did I, but I'm partial). The Harry Potter characters aren't mine, and neither are the nuances of all those fair-haired antiheroes I love so much. It's a bit long, a bit drabbley, but it had to get in here somehow...every time I try to finish this it balloons a little bit more. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. 

She didn't sleep well, curled on the sofa. Her dreams, wavery, intense and abstract, coalesced finally into a party. A disastrous party, which she shouldn't really have been at in the first place.

She was sixteen, and meant to be upstairs after eleven o'clock. Sixteen. It was an awkward age – she was too young to be out in public, but too old in appearance and comportment to be left in the nursery with Regulus and Sirius. So she stayed at the party, quiet and half-hidden behind the dark red drapes of heavy velvet, sitting on the window seat and watching the party. She couldn't see either of her sisters; Drama was probably making herself sick with champagne and free drinks. Narcissa tossed her head. If _she'd_ been allowed to really go to the party she'd have better things to do than become intoxicated. For a minute she could hear Drama's voice in her mind, relishing the forbidden words her friends at school used. "I'm gettin' _pissed_, Cis!" Mother was right – Drama really was quite vulgar.

Bella might be anywhere. Narcissa played with the crimson fluff resting against her knees and wished _she_ were twenty years old and could glide through a room and make everyone look at her dark hair and glowing skin. Wished _she_ were confident and dark and dangerously beautiful. The old wish to be Bella was mostly submerged in her consciousness, but it surfaced sometimes in a hot wave of envy. Narcissa looked at her pale hands resting on the curtain fabric and told herself severely that red didn't suit her colouring.

Somewhere very near, a woman laughed, and Narcissa was engulfed in the scent of patchouli. Bella… It was a deep, throaty laugh, a laugh that knew secret, adult things. A man's laughter, lighter and more malicious, mingled with the woman's for a moment. Then, "_Bella_ Donna…"

Lucius Malfoy. Oh, of course. Narcissa dug her fingernails into the curtain. Dangerous, beautiful Lucius Malfoy, with his face like a tombstone effigy and voice that could etch glass. She leaned back a little and the two of them, dark and fair, were perfectly in her sight line. Malfoy leaning back against a small ornamental table, the exquisite lines of his face outlined in profile. One hand held, negligently, a glass full of blood-coloured wine, which he held out to Bella, who took it, with one her smiles. She was tall and graceful; hair black as ebony, skin white as snow; lips red as blood. It was no wonder young Cissa had once thought her sister a fairy-tale princess. Her dress was the same red as the drapes, the wine, her fingernails.

They said something – Narcissa couldn't tell what – and then Bella leaned forward and kissed Lucius. She swallowed. It wasn't as if she hadn't walked in on them kissing before, but watching, concealed behind a curtain, felt wrong. She stared at the intricate dance of hands and mouths, half ashamed and half curious about an adult world Bella defined and she, Narcissa, did not understand.

They stopped, then, Bella drawing away, smiling. Lucius looked down on her with a curious expression in his grey eyes; expectant, excited, almost – afraid?

He lifted both Bella's hands in her, and staring down at her, said huskily, "Bella…Marry me?"

For a moment Bella stared back at him. Then, pulling her hands free, "You?" followed by a sound that was not quite a laugh. Bella never lost control. "My God, Lucius. What are you thinking?"

"I beg your pardon?" A stock answer to be sure, but something to cover up the amazement of that slight not quite laugh. Bella was now slightly turned away from Narcissa, standing in profile. Lucius Malfoy's face was clearly visible, and Narcissa could see the stomach-dropping shock as the emotion snapped out of his eyes: _she doesn't want me_.

Bellatrix lifted her left hand and tilted it to show a diamond Narcissa – and evidently Lucius – didn't recognize. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. You're a bit late."

Narcissa twisted her hands in the curtain to keep from making noise. _Bella_ was engaged? The world slid sideways several degrees. _Why didn't I know? Why didn't Mother know?_ The was closely followed by shock, for Bella was not only engaged, but engaged to someone other than the eligible Malfoy heir. _But everyone thought she was going to marry him. She doesn't want him?_ Narcissa stared at her sister. _Sweet Merlin, why? _She thought of Bella holding court in the Slytherin common room, Lucius sitting close by, one leg thrown over the arm of his chair, glittering impatiently. They had been two of a kind: clever, cruel, incandescent. _They're matched, she and him. And she doesn't want him._

Lucius, his eyes flat, said, "I am anticipated? What a shame." There was a slight pause. "It seems I must beg your pardon again," he paused, and added with a hint of malice, "You will pardon my ignorance in regards to your affections; it was an easy mistake to make." He bowed, cool and formal.

Bella, being Bella, smiled another one of her voluptuous smiles. "Lucius. Don't be silly." One slim, ringed hand, the fingers blood-red, rested on his arm. "Just because I am marrying does not mean that I shall be giving up all my hobbies."

What was he thinking? Narcissa wished she could read that face, and then found that perhaps she was glad she could not. What did you say to a virtual invitation to adultery? What did you say when the woman who fascinated you relegated you to a hobby? Lucius looked pointedly down at her hand. "I see. Good night, Miss Black, and please accept my good wishes."

"Lucius!" The patchouli swirled as Bella moved through air suddenly heavier than usual. "Lucius, what _are _you talking about? You know perfectly well how little marriage will bind me." She stepped close to him, putting both her hands on his shoulders. "Lucius, this is about control. We know about control…And I am never going to marry someone who knows me as well as you do. But we are matched, you and I." He didn't answer. "For God's sake, Lucius, you're in love with me!"

Lucius stepped back, and Narcissa saw for a moment, a blaze of sick, white-hot anger in his eyes, before it disappeared. Courteously, he raised her hand. "Am I? I didn't realize. I hope I didn't give you that impression…no, dear lady, I am not 'in love' with you." He kissed the hand, smiling into the dark eyes that Bella so often turned on susceptible youths. "You are beautiful. Dangerous. And fascinating. But lovable? No, I think not." He returned her hand.

Bella's face, in profile, was made of hard, frozen lines. She was entirely still, shocked, it seemed, to her core. She cleared her throat, found no words, and continued to stare. Then she rallied. Narcissa couldn't be anything else but impressed as her sister found, somewhere, her lost poise, and laughed a little. "Lucius Malfoy, I'd always thought you knew how to talk to a lady. Still, I suppose rudeness happens to the best of us. If you'll excuse me, I've promised the next dance to Rudolphus Lestrange." She turned and slid past him to glide across the floor to where, an unimaginable distance away from this strange little drama, waited the rugged, stupid Lestrange who wore the ring to match hers.

Lucius Malfoy picked up the forgotten wine and downed it, following Bella's progress with a savage look. Then he smashed the glass, hurling it to the ground with a movement so quick that Narcissa didn't expect it, and squeaked as the glass hit the parquet. Narcissa froze, pressed against the window, trying not to breath. She could feel Lucius staring at the curtain, hear the thoughts that skidded through his head. Then –

The curtain pulled away and Narcissa looked up at him. It was a good deal harder looking directly at him than watching him. He raised one eyebrow, then said, "What are you doing there?"

She couldn't speak. She had once seen him break a second-year's arm. She had more than once heard him excoriating a stray Gryffindor. Lucius Malfoy was the only Slytherin who didn't need to carry his wand to frighten people; he could be more effective than a curse with his tongue and a good reason.

He smiled, a faint winter smile on a pale wintery face. Then, carefully, he seated himself on the window seat, pushing his robes aside with an unconscious grace. "Narcissa," he said. "Always watching." He looked at her, and she was half afraid of that glance, and half breathless that it was turned exclusively on her. "You think I'm cruel, don't you?" She didn't answer. She couldn't answer. "Your sister, my dear," said Lucius Malfoy with supreme indifference, "is a bitch."

It was a word Drama would use; a word you might hear at Hogwarts from Ravenclaws or Gryffindors. It was not a word that belonged in Narcissa's world of crystal and velvet. She was shocked. Surprised. And, slowly, it brought a smile. "Yes," said Narcissa. "but it's not immediately obvious."

Lucius's mouth curved. "By which you mean that I'm to be excused for not realizing it before? Wise Narcissa." He leaned back against the window, staring out at the couples making up the set.

Narcissa watched him. He was right – she was always watching. He had pushed Ridley McGregor out of a fourth-floor window, they said. He and Bella and their lot played a semi-lethal hide and go seek at night after hours, she'd heard. The Malfoys were inbred; there would be a streak of wanton cruelty and violence there. It also explained those fragile looks – nothing but careful breeding got cheekbones like that. Sensual, cruel, beautiful, powerful. Bad faith; _mal foi_.

Malfoy. She tried to remember what else they said about him. An able manager, a good landlord, and passionately attached to the manor he would one day inherit. A natural head for politics; chess player and intriguer. Cultured, with an ear and a talent for music. She remembered him last Christmas, swinging into their house, smelling of frost and lightly drunk on other people's eggnog. He had brought his family on a social call, and while the parents had tea, Lucius and his cousin Julia had snuck upstairs, where Drama had begun a game of charades. Narcissa remembered clearly the laughter then, and the way he was almost relaxed.

At the end of the seat, Lucius rose suddenly, abruptly. "I wonder what you see, sometimes," he said. Then, "If you'll excuse me?" She nodded, and he turned away.

And Narcissa woke up, staring at the details of Helen's living room and shivering. Something tapped at the window and she rose and went to open it. The owl flew in and Narcissa felt her heart fall. It was a white barn owl, and it was hers. Which meant the letter it carried was for her, from home. Oh, no.

"Good news?" said Helen's voice from behind her.

Narcissa jumped. "I don't know," she said, turning and smiling at Helen. "I haven't read it yet."

Helen nodded. "Well, come join me in the kitchen. You can make coffee for the hoards."

"Certainly."

The letter slid off the owl's talon and into her hand so easily. It seemed so anxious to be read that it fell open, her mother's copperplate handwriting clear and damning.

_My dear Andromeda and Narcissa:_

_The unfortunate events which I spoke of in my last letter have been solved, or at least dealt with as best as is possible under the circumstances. Your return would be most appropriate. We will expect you tomorrow at five, by floo to the back fireplace on the first floor._

She stopped reading, her stomach plunging towards the floor. No, deeper. She had wanted to see this letter but now that it was here. No, oh, no. "I don't want to go back," she whispered, articulating the statement, tasting defiance. It was heady, strong, and stuck in the back of her throat like the cocktails she'd been drinking last night.

"Narcissa?" said Costos. He sounded tentative. She turned and smiled at him, because he was smiling at her. Her senses didn't spring to attention when he said her name, or when he moved across the floor. She didn't shiver when he looked at her. She felt calm under his gaze. She was – herself. Exactly what he had called her: Narcissa. No more and no less; not Miss Black, burdened with her geneology. Not Miss Narcissa, placed into the context of her family and sisters. Just Narcissa, with no last name and no history. A Narcissa who could be whatever she wanted.

The empty space promised in one word scared her. She almost went to him as she had last night, to be held and comforted. But she found that she had had enough of being helped. This was one thing she could carry herself; one decision she would make instead of allow it to be made for her. "They want me back tomorrow."

Costos's eyes flickered. "They do?" She nodded. There was a moment, locked in amber, of perfect agreement to not talk about it. Then Costos said, "Well, we'll have to make sure you have a good time today, then, won't we?"

Narcissa, more grateful than she could explain, walked over to him and they went into the kitchen, side by side.


	9. A Model of Decorum and Tranquillity

First thing: let's do some math, people. Six months, nine chapters, 800 hits, and 11 reviews? That's pathetic! So since (second thing), this is the end of the story and I would very very much appreciate some feedback, please review it! Anyway, I've had this on my computer for a while and it keeps blinking at me without really answering, and I really don't think I can do anything else to it. And yet, I'm still not _quite_ happy with it. So, please, if you see any inconsistencies, either in this chapter or in the story as a whole, point them out to me! Is Lucius developed enough? Do we like him? Is the chess metaphor coming out of nowhere? Too heavy-handed? Does this chapter make sense? Since this IS the end, I feel the need to thank all the people who have taken the time to review this – it is very deeply appreciated. The title of this chapter and various quotes are from the Ulvaeus/Anderssen musical Chess, which I have been using throughout. Oh, sweet Merlin, how I ramble. Sorry.

"You don't have to go back," Drama had said, the night before, her eyes sparkling, her hair falling out of its elaborate french knot, as they grinned at each other over the scrabble board. "Don't let them force you," had said Frank, toasting her with his butterbeer. "You can't go now," Helen had exclaimed, turning as she came into the kitchen. "I can't make coffee." "Please stay," Costos Fitzgerald had whispered in her ear as she lay curled next to him on the sofa, one protecting arm about her shoulders. Close enough to hear his heartbeat. Close enough to save her from anything that might come after her.

And, the following afternoon, she stared at her crystal ball. Drama was right – she could get out now, if she wanted. Stay in London until the beginning of term. Break with her family in a way no one had yet dared to do. Toss up everything she had ever been taught and allow it to fall back again, shattered. Narcissa Black would no longer be the pampered daughter, but the outcast. Surrender your family for a set of friends. Forgo Bella for Drama; marble Lucius for merry Costos. It was the ultimate gamble. She stared down again at the crystal in front of her, the one that had lead her to Frank, to Helen and ultimately to Costos, who, in spite of everything, had spoken to her of possibilities.

She cleared her mind, looking at the piece of glass in front of her. It was almost ridiculously simple to fall into that half-trance and turn the dim swirls into shapes. A small room, bare except for several tables with ladder-back chairs behind them and the sun turning it all golden. A small witch, who looked as if she might shatter if you shook her too roughly, was speaking to a class of third-years. "Yes, Mr. Parkinson, we are going to study crystal-reading. Now, the first thing you should remember is that, as with any branch of divination, crystals are subjective. If you read for yourself, keep an open mind or you may find yourself seeing what you want or expect..." Professor Applebaum, during Narcissa's first year of divination. The image switched, sharply. Here was Sirius, age what? seventeen? with all the good looks the Blacks usually possessed. He was standing with a group of friends – Pettigrew, someone with Potter hair, and another boy she didn't know. Frank holding Alice in a wedding dress, swinging her around and around. Bella, angry, throwing a vase on the floor. Drama in tears, her head resting on the Tonks boy's shoulder as he put his arms around her and patted her with a maturity Narcissa had never expected of him. Her mother, silent and disapproving. Sirius, in the rain, banging on a door, which was then opened by the Potter boy. Sirius in the street, laughing bitterly – she had seen that one before. An older Lucius, standing with his hand on the shoulder of a young boy with pale gold hair and something unidentifiably, but inarguably, Malfoy about him. His son? Another Potter boy, with green eyes this time, facing the fair boy, loathing in both their faces. Narcissa rubbed her forehead, trying to make sense of the images, faster and clearer than she'd ever experienced. _What do I do? Where do I go from here? Show me something I can use, dammit. Focus. Control. You're a Black, you're not some idiot Prewitt from Manchester. What do you want, how can you get it? Is it worth it? What does it mean? _The demonic red light of a fire. The greasy-haired little Slytherin boy Julia had recruited. Green light. Laughter, both warm and cold. Quidditch players. A much older Drama in silhouette in the entrance hall of the Grimmauld Place house, one hand resting on the wall. And, for one brief moment, a woman with pale hair seated at a large oak desk, reading a letter. Her back was ramrod straight, the hand that held the letter perfectly still. The desk itself was in a small, elegant study and decorated with a frieze of snakes and arabesques, the letter "M" intertwined in the woodwork at the front. The woman moved a little, and Narcissa saw that she wore light green and a wedding ring. The face was her own. She swallowed and took a deep breath. _Are you sure?_ But the images spun away again, capricious and unhelpful, wilder than before. A young woman with short, pink hair and Narcissa's nose paired with Bella's cheekbones. Dragons, swooping about the Quidditch pitch. Professors Dumbledore and McGonnagal speaking quietly, a funeral procession, the participants dressed in black crepe, the women veiled and the men sober. A muggle machine swooping through a night sky. A –

Someone knocked on the door. "Narcissa?"

She shut her eyes, fighting for a place in the universe that was now, not a thousand possibilities away. "Yes?"

"May I come in?"

Costos. "No."

There was a slight pause from the other side of the door. "All right. I'll stay out here. It's almost five o'clock."

_We expect you tomorrow at five_, the letter had said._ You'll have time to dress for tea._ "I know."

"Well?"

Narcissa didn't answer.

There was a rustle in the hallway. "I'm coming in," Costos said abruptly.

"Please don't."

The door opened, and Costos stood in the corridor. "Well?"

Narcissa was seated at the small table in the room and she turned to look up at him. Brown hair, with those improbable blonde streaks. Grey, grey eyes. Lucius Malfoy had grey eyes as well, but not like these. The large, capable, Healer's hands. Hands to be trusted. You should trust Costos, with his fragile, little-boy charm and very adult worldview. But even when you had seen a future – your future – that didn't involve him at all? There had been Lucius Malfoy and a child, but there had been no Constantine Fitzgerald. No. When things came to a choice, you followed your loyaltiesAnd your loyalties were, as always, to your house. To your family. To tradition. And, most importantly, to yourself. Stability, calm regulation to convention and expectation – that was the way to go through life most serenely. Remaining detached. You didn't trust Constantine Fitzgerald when he stood there in the doorway. You stood, smoothly, with the grace drilled into your six-year-old frame by a dancing master. You took three steps forward, and you turned the face that held fourteen unbroken generations of pure, Black, blood towards Constantine Fitzgerald, and you said, "I'll have to get my things together. Excuse me."

You were going home. You were giving up a world built by grown-up children where things like idealism, friendship and love ran unchecked, a world tottering above the squalid truth of life: cold, hunger, danger, betrayal. Where families were loving but helpless to protect even their closest members. A world you hadn't been brought up to; a dangerous world. Better recognize the betrayal and know that everyone acts on their own self-interest. It's easier that way. You were going home to pick up the pieces of your old life and use them to block off the part of you that had discovered you enjoyed the casual conversation, the friendly wrangling and debating. You were going home to do exactly what your crystal ball told you to do.

Narcissa wrapped the ball into a small, neat package and put on her hat. Costos remained in the doorway. "You're leaving."

"I'm going home."

"If you can call that mausoleum a home!" He burst out suddenly. "You have half a home here already. You could stay."

Narcissa stood opposite him in the doorway, on the other side of the threshold. "Costos, this isn't a home, it's a playground."

"Home is what you make it," he answered. "Drama knows that. Hell, Sirius knows that. You'll find that out soon enough, I suppose."

"Would you please move?"

"And I don't suppose you'd even consider the people you're leaving behind?" he continued, as though she hadn't spoken.

"I act for myself always. But I shouldn't have to justify myself. Please get out of my way."

"No." Narcissa turned up a furious glare and met an equally furious one in Costos's grey eyes. "I hope you realize what you're doing."

"I do."

"No, I don't think you do. I think – hell, how would I know, but I _think _- I love you. But that's not something that would have much effect on a daughter of the illustrious Black family." He caught her elbows suddenly and pulled her forward to kiss him. One last, bittersweet good-bye to a world where anything seemed possible. She tilted her head up because she wanted to kiss him, because if she didn't lean back the tears at the edge of her vision would fall forward and down her face instead of sliding backwards to her hairline. Because she wanted – she wanted – she wanted something that she could not have. Not now, not ever. She dropped back and met his look, her eyes veiled and calm. God, it was so hard to keep that calm. He stepped out of her way. "You and I, we've seen it all chasing our hearts' desires."

Narcissa completed the verse. "But we go on pretending, stories like ours have happy endings. It's all a game. You do see that, don't you?"

Costos looked away. "Go," he said bitterly. "Just go, why don't you?"

So she went.

The Manor was decked in black crepe. Her mother, dressed in mourning, met her in the front parlour. "Julia," was all she said. "Something went wrong in the lab."

"I know," she said gently. "I saw it in the paper. I wish you'd allowed me to come back." _It's all a game, you do see that, don't you?_ But Costos's life wasn't the only one that was a game. It's just the Old Families recognized that the stakes were higher.

Lucius was in the library, a chess board in front of him, the pieces spread in a game half played. He looked up at her as she came in. "You're back."

Every piece knew how it moved, and the movements she had been trained in all her life were instinctual. She swept across the floor in quick steps to kneel by his chair and look up at him adoringly through gold eyelashes. "They wouldn't let me come sooner. I'm so sorry."

He picked up the black knight and turned it over in his long fingers. "Just another loss," he said bleakly. "We'll soon have a new piece. This game is bigger than we are, and infinitely renewable. Who is going to care about one lost piece of ivory?" He looked at the small figure in his hands and for a moment his eyes seemed to belie his words. "You know what they say, don't you? _Each game of chess means just one less mistake there for the making_."

Narcissa tried to answer, to say 'yes, of course' or something like that, to agree, and found she couldn't speak. So she nodded instead, and rested her head against the arm of the chair. She felt a chill hand caress her hair, and shut her eyes in patient acceptance of the life she had chosen for herself.


End file.
